


Alternative Realities

by inopinion



Category: Red Queen - Victoria Aveyard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Compilation, Gen, Multi, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-23 14:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 50,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11991651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inopinion/pseuds/inopinion
Summary: Short glimpses at alternative scenes, different POVs, "what-if" scenarios. Spoilers from all published works may be within these chapters, or some alternatives to the actual canon may be presented.





	1. The Shadow

**Behind the scenes, alternative POV**

* * *

Happiness, even just a taste of retrospective laughter, evaded him. She scrubbed joy from every folded memory. Among his recollection, perfection befell others and avoided him at every turn. Always far below those around him. Or… no, he had been better at somethings, right? She must have cleaned up the messiness of his observations to push the sub-par into the superb; his best into his bitter worst. Around her, friendly faces twisted into monstrous sneers that plunked like broad stones through still surfaces of water: jarring and rippling for acres of time. Or maybe every laugh really did ring hallow in joyless ears. How would he ever know?

He shook his head like swimmers do to to clear soggy pathways carved intricately between his circuits. A surgeon. Precision. Maybe precise paths layered onto established trails couldn't help but leave wide and well-trod hallways. Each hardened vein darting off to a cavernous, wounded hall where childhood once played freely, but now was excised entirely. Crushed gardens wasted away where loyalties once germinated from strong roots. No matter the depths, she could extract any relationship like a _weed_. A greenwarden of the mind.

He often wondered if she knew the pathways she cut. A surgeon surely would know restraint better than the abandon with which she entered his mind. The daily intrusions long ago lost their invasive feel. Instead, each echo he never heard, each flash of thought recalled without his will, was met with exhausted resignation. It hurt less to be still, quiet minded, and without fight. It hurt less not to hear her arguments, the pulse of her reason, her rationale insistence, her power-hungry will that would take, take, take, even if he begged her not to.

"Be careful with this one, Maven." Her voice hissed, fetching that first kiss from him and turning the taste of Mare from warm honey to bitter rind.

She peeled back the smells, the feel, the taste of Mare. She floated into the texture and the beat of his heart, the heat of his cheek, the hope of his childish heart. He felt her jealousy, rage, fear left accidentally in the wake of her departure from _that_ memory. A memory she could sour but not steel.

But what did his mother have to fear from the little lightning girl? From the red blooded woman she'd made his bride? She must have heard his question on her way out of his mind.

"We have much to discuss." The lingering hiss of her 's' called him to fallow, commanded him to attention, and worried him deep into his core.


	2. Murderer's Prince

**An alternate perspective.**

**Warning: death, murder, a bit of gore written out.**

* * *

Hilt in hands that belonged to his body like a memory belongs to a mind: distant and faded. He saw them flex. He watched them steadily lift up. But he didn't feel the grip as crisply as he knew he should. The supple leather was cushioned by a layer of wool between the spiral binding and the metal. Each spiral an edge his palms could no longer discern.

The hilt and the blade belonged to his family for generations. Every Calore of note had held it. Every Calore had contributed to the notch on the inside of the handle where armor rubbed away steel. With it out in front of him, he could not make out the notch. The only factor that made the dream-sword real was the weight. The weight of the sword made worse by gravity: severe and pulling hard towards the ground.

Elara called on memories, snaking through his brain for the controls she needed. She found them in the years of instruction and practice. First, in the pumpkin patch on a cold autumn morning. The skin of the gourd strained and snapped with a hallow thunk, thunk, thunk. One orange ball burst after the other cleaved by the mighty sword in shaky hands. And then again, fifteen years old and graduated from vegetables to blood. The pigs… the skin of a pig didn't resist. The bone of the neck and the rigored flesh protested like clay. Each pass through the carcass clung to the metal and sucked it into the soul of the felled animal. He could feel Elara searching for his first human kill. But Cal had never been so close as to require a sword on an actual battlefield. Guns and bombs and his own flames served him better at the front, in the courtyard, in the sewers.

She wove her way back to the pigs. She animated them. She made their skin crawl and shimmer. She raised his hands above his head, the protests of gravity drawing sweat to the nape of his neck. He saw pink flesh and red, gaping wounds. And then, he saw his father.

He saw a man angry, but not at him. Afraid, but not of him. Dejected, betrayed, but not by him. And she gave him every detail back in that final second. The sticky grip of the leather. The layered edges of the binding. The notch on the hilt. The heat of his hands and the burn of his muscles holding the weight against gravity.

Crueler things, too. The prickle of a missed beard-hair below the king's side burn. The silver blush of exhaustion and fury. The sweat pooled like tears below his father's pleading eyes. Eyes pleading with him not to look, not to remember, not to know what he was about to do. But Cal knew. He knew when she forced his hands down that he would never forget and she would never let him look way. He knew and he prepared as best as a boy can when faced with killing his first hero.

Nothing, not pumpkins, not pigs, could prepare for the feel of it. The sound of it. His father's neck bones, closer to the surface than the awkwardly angled carcasses, jarred his hands. The sword more like a cleaver, a butcher's tool than elegant weapon, despite it's decorations. His elbows held strong. His arms like stone crushing down and through. His anatomy lessons blurred through his mind but he was unsure if it was his doing or hers. The spine was penetrated. The cord severed. The bones spliced. The blade barreled through the rest as if they were one piece of softened butter, or cream on top of milk: the esophagus, the thyroid, the trachea and out.

Ka-Thunk. The "Ka!" was a snap of the solid bone forced to yield. The "thunk" less the landing of a head on the floor than the thud of his heart stopping momentarily, honoring the horror before it, before resuming the pounding fury that kept Cal mercilessly live. Cal didn't register the splatter of blood over the rush in his own ears.


	3. Mostly

**What if more went on in at the Notch? More than just mostly sleeping?**

* * *

"Control."

Cal's words are soft and introspective as much as they are meant for me. Control is what he's practiced his entire life. He's learned it with hard lessons and through childish tantrums. He cultivated reserves of control before he ever took command of a single soldier. Cal's calm statement steadies me.

Control was less the focus of my upbringing, only so much as to continue my survival. Patience and opportunity kept me in trinkets for trade. Regardless of Cal's measured approach, my patience has been the backdrop of our nights.

In the Stilts, kids coupled almost at random in the count down to conscription. It makes me wonder if Shade discovered his ability on one of his many escapes from jilted girls. But Cal seems less aware of the mechanics than I expected. His roaming nights in common places didn't afford him the same education.

For all his hurt, he seeks solace as much as I do in our close proximity, the implicit understanding unspoken and mostly just for comfort. Mostly, we sleep. Mostly because I am tired and he is tired and both of us have worries we can't evaporate out of our heads. But when it's not mostly, when it's rarely, I fear he's going to light me on fire and that I'll shock him to dust.

Which is probably why he mutters, "Control," against my neck. He is on top of me, his elbows indenting the mat below us and his hips rolling to a stop. His weight shifts onto my legs so his hand can stroke my face. His fingers singed the small hairs on my cheek and he closes his fist to protect me.

Control doesn't end the want in my core. Control doesn't ease the ache that shuffles my hips against his. Control won't satiate what we've built up in the rare nights which weren't apart of "mostly". I'm tired of control. I'm tired of the effort. While he relaxes and talks himself down, I use my lips to wind him back up. The creases in his skin give my tongue a path. The heat of him chases the layers off. He stalls again, the word on his lips but not in the air. I smother the sound with my lips and drag sparks into the flesh of his back. He jerks and loses himself for the thirty seconds I need to think of my retort.

"Give in." I push and his shirt is up to his armpits.

"Let go." I rake his pants down with my foot.

"Don't stop," I beg him with my words, with my lips, with my hands on parts of him I'm certain no one has ever touched.

"Mare…" My name has never sounded so much like a prayer, a call for relief.

"Love me."

"I do. I love you," he confirms, and then he blushes. Silver rushes from the shallow skin of his chest up his neck and to his cheeks. When he closes his eyes it feels like the lights in the room aren't enough.

"What's the matter, Cal?" I keep a tease in my tone. He needs to know it's okay. I'm okay with our pace. Every hormone in my body isn't but I am.

I'm aware of every inch of him resting against me in complete stillness, more so, I can still feel the heat and the heavy desire that we cultivated together. We've never made it this far before, never to the point of being completely naked with each other. I'm not surprised that he stops, that he collects himself, that the next move he'll make is to slide to the side and collect his clothes before they can cool.

"I've never." He licked his lips and his eyes stay closed to avoid my reaction.

"I know. It's okay."

"That obvious?" His embarrassed chuckle earns him a kiss from me. He slides back into the push of my lips and one second blends to the next each one preparing me for the eventual separation.

Parts of him slide purposefully down and I hear, "Control," one more time, only this time it doesn't mean stop. It doesn't mean distract. It means purpose and pleasure and two people combined with intent. No one has ever snuck into me with as much affection or care. The warrior can be sentimental. A soldier can be a lover. And control can mean careful abandon.

* * *

New to this book series, but I like writing the alternative scenes, alternative points of view. Hope you like these little looks.

Taking suggestions for scenes to write the alternative perspective. :)


	4. Loudest Silence

**Heavy is the head that wears a stolen crown.**

Blocks of blood-filled rocks carved by clank after clank of iron on stone. A monument replacing old, tired symbols of strength with a weary chair of suspicion. Blocks of silence so loud that no whisper could echo through the hallow crown.

Fingertips inclined to tap and dance in impatient boredom are stilled on the edges of the shadowed arms. Unnecessary movement, long moments of contemplation, even the flippant arguments so easily entrapping to youthful statesmen cannot be tolerated under the heavy strain of silent stone. The safety is overpowering. The exhaustion is, at first, every bit an injury as any found in the long hard days of a trench. But weariness and sameness overtake unease and hastens his new found freedom into the depths of unseen illness. Dreams slither into nightmares. Nightmares spook eyes into sleepless turmoil. Days are spent sitting in the sucking void where his thoughts remain entangled with questions. 

What is his? What was hers? Who is loyal? Who is scheming? What was real? What was placed?

Questions he’s convinced his departed accomplice spliced along fractures. Quandaries that can enslave him to the silence for minutes and then blending hour after hour towards the dawn. On the horizon all enemies rise, but none engross him like the gaping spaces once filled by other voices.


	5. Walsh POV

The prince found her in a pub and now she has a job. Typical. I laugh with the girls when Winter wonders out loud if the maid staff was out of positions. One who doesn’t mind being on her knees surely would do well scrubbing floors. It’s a crude joke and probably one she’s heard before since Winter hasn’t ever had an original thought in her life. Still, I laughed even though I know if I was choosing between silver shafts and the Choke, I’d take the offer too. I take an accounting and I’m almost certain I’m the only one with a brother at the Choke. They know, but they don’t know all the same. Another girl from the Stilts just might be refreshing, especially a Barrow if she’s anything like her brother. And just like that, I remake the comment in my head and assume she and Shade have a few things in common other than their last name. If so, she’ll find no end to her suitors between serving shifts. I let the girls have their laugh, today is gonna be rough enough.

* * *


	6. Secret Guard

**Back before the guard had fully gripped Norta, newly minted Captain Farley started managing an informant.**

Diana Farley had a secret. She had many secrets that belonged to the Guard. The type that put a thousand lives at risk. For those, she carried a pill. But their was no remedy besides denial for the secret that only belonged to her. 

The first rule of covert operations was simply not to get caught. And over months not even she admitted what was plainly playing in her heart, a distraction. Like all thing that were not tangible, it started small. A flicker of preference, an ounce of added trust, a desire to meet the peculiar creature behind the looping letters that passed through the chain with cleaver, coded phrases. Maybe it was the game layered on top of the war that drew her in: the codes. Strangely subtle and all at once revealing in their context. Each one written like a wayward letter, words for a sister, a mother, always a female. It was easy to imagine a house of women missing him.

That… Imagining. Musing. Ascribing comfortable traits to an informant, a brave nobody doing his part. No, not a nobody. Shade Barrow.

Shade. She imagined him like a shadow at midday: dark and severely sharp. And letter after letter stretched him into long, mid afternoon shapes that fuzzed soft and gentle with poetry under each turn of phrase.

She barely hid her anxious embarrassment, climbing from a sewer grate just outside the officer quarters. Out of a girlhood habit, she ran her hand over the stubble of her fresh hair cut and regretted her masculine choice. She wanted to impress this soldier. The realization was humiliating, but thankfully private. Except it wasn’t. Where she thought no one stood, someone filled the dark slip of shadow.

“Rise,” she hissed.

“Red as the dawn,” he answered and she felt her heart thud at the richness of his tone.

Diana Farley had a secret, and it scared her to death.


	7. Who's Game?

**After Kings Cage, a little encounter of Mare and Cal.**

Whether due to surprise or etiquette, Cal shot up from his relaxed slump when we entered the room. Farley blocked my view for just a moment, but I knew he didn’t see me because his head snapped between Farley and a man on his right with only a small hint of confusion and a whole heap of annoyance. Then, intending to land back on Farley, he instead looked directly at me and morphed like an ember being extinguished in a muddy puddle. The indifference that I hoped for looked horribly like pain. Betrayed by his expression, and visibly struggling to recover his composure, Cal turned to consult with the squat man with greying temples. His colors: House Jacos. Clearly, neither of us expected the other to be there.

I was told that Command thought I could have input on the Guard’s strategy. I had assumed my relationship with Cal and my time with Maven formed their theory that I could add prophetic assumptions on how the impending silver war would play. I told Farley it was foolish, but she stayed true to Command’s orders and I placated with no intention of being useful. She, and Command, wondered at my loyalty too loud for me not to notice. I know they anticipated my relationship to be a complication and perhaps that’s the true reason why they intended to keep me close, controlled, and too busy to consider alternatives. 

In truth, in the two weeks since Cal took up the call of his people, since he abandoned our cause, since he abandoned me, my interest in the war games people played along any lines had waned. My interest in anything but anger and suspicion especially dissipated. The open questions about my loyalty didn’t bring me to the practice field with my fellow electricons. Letting out the hostility, anger, and disappointment did.

It’s only because he couldn’t control his eyes–always finding my face, examining the angle of my shoulder turned towards him, lingering on the table and my hands in front of me–that I considered what I must have looked like to him. I had an accident in training, or I guess it’s easier to describe it as an unbridled blow up, and in keeping with the rules, I wore the bandages and the pain with the rest of the day still left for suffering, assuming I could find a healer to help me end the hurt. 

So I knew why his eyes keep flicking to the cream wrap around my burnt hand. The salves they gave me helped quench the initial pain into something bearable, but if I moved wrong, I couldn’t keep the grimace off my face. When I slid it of the table and under, I miscalculated, and a soft groan shifted out of my throat on contact with the table. Cal shifted forward and into the table between us, a physical reminder of the distance his choice put between us. And the hand of the squat man on his arm pulled him back to live in his decision.

Cal exploded. Flames flickered and heat exuded throughout the tiny room. The man retracted, moving an arms length away. Cal blanched hot, eyes lit up. I saw suspicion crease the corners of his eyes and angle his head, chin up in defiance. 

“Who’s games are you playing, Mare?” His echoing snarl snapped in half when the heavy door slammed shut behind him.

I heard a scoff, though it wasn’t from Farley, and the entitlement I heard in it boiled my skin. Farley turned to me, eyes set on rectifying the situation, but I didn’t have time or patience or enough calm left in me to give her the satisfaction of explaining.

“Who’s game? I’ll tell you. No one’s game.” I hated to shake, but shaking was safer than pulling the lights down into me. The lights flickered without my intention to do so and I had to leave.


	8. Green Eyes

Chartreuse. Forest. Emerald. Each swatch brought into the light and set aside until she found a blend of kelly, hunter, and golden rod. Gisa Barrow had never acted out of selfishness before, but she never had felt so heartsick with the double-hit of her sister’s impending departure and Kilorn’s sudden twist of fait. If anyone could save him, it was Mare. Sometimes, Gisa would put her hardest effort into her work only to watch a silver lady turn up her nose. And if it went unpurchased, she had to unstitch every strand and set the cloth aside for planer, red clothing. She often marveled at her sister’s consistent plunder. Mare made a better thief than she did a seamstress. But her embroidery was her salvation and it kept her out of the choke. Besides, she had improved a lot since getting her apprenticeship.

She felt funny thinking about giving Kilorn a momento to remind him of home, of her. But he was supposed to be her consolation. Mare would leave and he was supposed to stay. He’d come around looking for letters and news, fretting like the rest of them and years would open possibilities.

She hushed her mind. Kilorn had no shortage of prospects among the girls closer to his age, if he ever gave up on Mare. But what if? What if those golden green eyes brought more than just an occasional fish and a mind full of her sister? What of someday… No. No more. Kilorn would be on a transport to the choke or Mare would shuttle him out with the money she stole. Either way, he would be gone, Mare would be gone. And she would be alone with her parents waiting for…. for…. terrible things and bleak, gray moments before she too would be dead. Better that he leave with something besides his lost ambitions.

She matched the brown thread to offset the green and call attention to the gold. It didn’t take her long to stitch the boat, switch to bright blue and highlight the surf, add dark blue to bring depth, and then red sails. Not red like blood, but red-orange like the locks she kept tied up and out of the way. And below, the rainbow shimmer of fish scaled to be flecks under the water.

A crash outside startled her. She tied off her last fish and quickly swept the threads off her space, hiding her piece against her breast. Her mistress barreled through to the window and gasped. Gisa swallowed hard and joined her. The stampede of scared reds and pursuing silvers brought her attention to her sister. Mare didn’t know the city. She prepared to leave.


	9. Choking

**Shade Barrow…. graphic depictions of war and death.**

* * *

Rigor has yet to settle in. The surface beneath his feet squishes soft and pliable. He can’t breath with his mouth covered, but he can’t without it either. His lungs suck the fabric of the flimsy filter onto his tongue with each heaving breath. He tastes ash and bile and smoke.

He cannot run. The bodies aren’t even and there is no soil between the limbs for him to find the footing needed to carry him. So he hops from one place to another scarcely scanning for movement before landing his boot onto a thigh or a chest or… something that used to move. 

He falls…

… Face to face with the exposed jaw of a soldier still limp under his weight, he jolts back. Hands and feet scrapping and receding away from the death mar of brilliant, white teeth, he comes to a seated position on the lap of a woman with bright red hair and blue eyes still crystal clear and jarringly familial. He steals her last breath out of the air before launching himself in any direction that could mean being away from that place. Away from the death and the blood and the bombs and the strongarm hurtling debris in nonsensical patterns. He is flying until he is slammed back down, but the leg under his chin is stiff and cold and old. 

Then he is flying again thinking only of the barracks, only of the safety of the underground depths where the only thing that lingers of the battlefield is the constant smell of putrid decay and the animated corpses that have yet to die.

Beds are tossed to the outer edges and soldiers are busy cleaning gear like a thousand of them didn’t just die outside on the soil. But he is not judging them, only himself. Safe and winded and a hundred yards from where he was just a moment before, heaving acid onto the cloth that covers his nose and watching it drip down to his boots. Nothing about the unreal field of death has followed him except the splatter of brown-red on his uniform. He is thankful to have left the memory of his dash between his last scramble and the relative safety of his surroundings far behind him.

If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he teleported. 


	10. Marecal Story Snippet

A dozen comparisons brought giggles rumbling through her throat, but she stopped short of issuing embarssing assessments of his performance. For being new, he was hardly bad at it. But there was an awkward clumsiness drawing out memories of newborn foals and toddlers unaware of their bodies. He finally got her panties down but the laughter he had ascribed to tickling didn’t stop.

His smiling face sought explanation and she swallowed her silliness attempting a stern affect. When she was new to sex, she took it serious, too. Like every time should carry the passion and the weight of the first. Love is passion and sincerity but it is colored by humor and joy. And while he wanted to make love to her, she simply wanted to laugh through the mistakes and mishaps and odd comparisons. He would too, with time, but not that time and maybe not the next. But the prospect of ‘next’ and 'after’ and 'eventually’ purchased through repeated experiences satisfied her as much as sinking into be loved under his learning body for the now.


	11. From a Distance

## Just a little bit of looking back from a long way down the line.

* * *

I mostly don’t ask because I’m sick of hearing everyone say I’m too young, that I shouldn’t worry about unpleasant things. I only get to know the basics, like we are from a country called Norta, my mother is from the Lake Lands. We left Norta after their civil war in which my mother, aunt, and uncles all fought. It was a battle in the war that killed my father before I was even born. I may have stopped asking, but I didn’t need words to put together some of the story, I fill in the gaps with daydreams and stories of my own.

My aunt stares through the fire into the past on cold winter nights. It’s not a mood she falls into all of the time, but when she does, curiosity gets the better of me. I wonder at all the reasons she might look so distant. Those far away moments fleeting and private aren’t meant for my questions, I pretend like I don’t see them, but I can’t help but play a film in my head.

It’s hard to imagine unless I close my eyes, but I know that she wasn’t always weak and sick. She wasn’t always scarred by burns or shrunken and tired. Before we all left Norta, she had been a soldier side by side with my mother and my father. She had been beautiful and strong and amazing. I can picture her: Mare Barrow charging onto the battlefield in a suite of shining brass armor and brandishing a sword at the ogre-like Silvers that pummeled her with slime and filth.

When I look at her again, unmoved, and seemingly at war with the embers, I sometimes see something sadder, full of remorse, and an ocean of regret. I’m fourteen now, and I know a little about regret. Last year, I wished Markel Fortlon would get a pencil in the eye and then it happened. I wish that was the only time what I wanted came true. Looking at her now, I wanted her to shake her head and dust away the fog and smile, so I wouldn’t imagine the cause.

Kilorn and my mother trade gossip about people from their past sometimes. And when they get really quite, it’s always about an exiled man on an island. No name, no background. Just basic stuff: he’s scratching out a harvest, he’s chasing off settlers, he’s been drunk and sick. He sounds like a grumpy old man. But he must be important or why talk about him even once a year let alone three or four? When I was eight and just before they realized I was listening, it occurred to me that they never talk about him in front of Mare. They talk about Ada and Cameron, and a man they call the prime minister, although he’s not our current leader. But never about the man on the island. I overheard less now that they know I pay attention.

I imagine Mare and this man tearing each other apart. Or maybe loving each other deeply. But I don’t know why a soldier wouldn’t just finish their enemy or why a woman wouldn’t claim her lover. That just doesn’t make sense. A lot about the man on the island doesn’t make sense. I mean, Mare’s not pretty anymore, not to people that don’t see her every day. She’s not even all that nice to be around, but she has her moments. Maybe he never accepted her scars? Maybe she just wasn’t beautiful enough or healthy enough? Maybe he didn’t like how she was always sick or how she was frail and weak? If he has to harvest, then I would guess he’s a farmer and Mare wouldn’t do well on a farm. I wish I could ask, and that makes me angry.

I watch her intently. Sometimes, if I can just catch someone’s eye just right, I can convince them to tell me things. It’s happened before: I locked eyes with Elza and she gave me all the answers to the science quiz questions and she hates cheaters. Or once, I put on such a display of silent pleading that Kilorn outright spilled what he got me for my birthday. If she looks over now, maybe she’ll tell me about the bracelet in her hands with a clasp she locks and unlocks over and over but she never puts it on. Maybe, if she just looks. But she won’t. And it’s silly to think I could make her talk without a convincing argument.

I’ve learned what I can from her dreams. She talks in her sleep sometimes in the tiny room we share. When I hear her mumbles, her fitful shaking in the middle of the night, sometimes I reach out and rub her shoulder until she quiets. And I feel useful, and like there’s a purpose to having the two of us crammed together. My mom says Mare doesn’t like to sleep alone. I think that my mom doesn’t like being woken up by nightmares, and would rather leave it to me. 

Watching her cradle her scarred arms like the blaze isn’t warm enough, I know what murmurs will be passing her lips in the night. 

“Cal.” 

Clear as day, when she says it. Not mumbled like when she cries for Shade, or angry when she shouts, “Maven,” another name from her past that we just never talk about. it’s what she says. 

“Cal.” 

With remorse and guilt and a choked sob that never progresses, never wakes her. Just his name once, maybe twice. 

“Cal.”

I asked my mother once last year, casually, just like I was asking what was for dinner. She froze, turned her back and took a breath, and then let it out slowly. I regretted my trespassing into her past. She shook off my apology as she turned around to cup my cheeks. Her eyes carried a sadness not for Cal, but I think for Mare. And wished and wanted her to tell me who he was. Who was this man that came into my room as a whisper and lingered in tears? I wanted it, and she opened her mouth, then closed her eyes and breathed deep again.

She struggled to say it, like it took every ounce of her to get the words out, “That is not my story to tell, darling. When you’re older, when she’s ready, that’s Mare’s grief to share.”

Mare put the bracelet to her lips and pinched the band between in a slow, kiss. And she rocked into her memories in front of the flames.


	12. Interruption

A little Red Queen, Modern AU, wedding thing for funsies.

* * *

“This is wrong.” Cameron corralled her body between her arms and looked at the gaudy valances over every window of the church.

“Too blue.” Kilorn was three shots into his flask.

“Too… wrong.” Cameron couldn’t find a better word besides wrong. 

Kilorn faced the guest book, his hand hovered over the pen, but he shook his head.

“Aren’t you gonna write something?”

“Pretty sure anything I might write–well, when you don’t have anything nice to say.”

Cameron pulled at the hem of her dress, and wrote, “Good Luck.” then wondered if that sounded almost like she didn’t believe they’d last. She didn’t. But maybe she should have written, “Best Wishes” instead. 

Cal came through the side door with his father and walked with him to the front pew to receive instructions, words of wisdom, and the careful examination of his fiance, Evangeline. He pulled away from her pawing fingers and retreated to the side door.

“He doesn’t look happy,” Kilorn said, a subtle smile on his face.

“Miserable, I’d say.” Cameron glanced at the invitation.

“At least one thing is right about today.” 

Cameron had to yank hard to get the flask away from his lips. He reluctantly let her take it and put it into her clutch. He folded his arms and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling and began theorizing all the different outcomes of each moment where he almost reached out, almost told her how he felt, when he almost kissed her under the moonlight on the docks, or the shadows between the houses, or in the rain after racket ball last week.

“It must be close to starting.” Cameron nudged him and pointed to Diana taking her seat with the rest of the Barrow family. She looked back and saw Shade ready to escort Ruth into the church and to her seat, an usher at his sister’s request.

“Traitor,” Kilorn mumbled, carefully pulling Cameron’s clutch towards him.

“He’s supporting his sister. Just like you’re supporting her.”

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to have talked her out of this. He promised.”

“He promised he’d try. And obviously, he failed.” She smacked his hand and put her clutch on the other side of her legs.

The music started, Shade began walking. Ruth looked grim under the mask of her smile. Cameron looked forward and saw Cal and Maven already next to the priest at the front, appearing unexpectedly. Elara held Maven’s eye contact like if she let him glance away, he’d be out the door. Ruth passed. Shade lead her to her seat. Shade took his seat next to Diana, and then the priest commanded everyone to rise. 

Mare Barrow, dressed in layers and fluff beyond her own tastes, approached through the double doors of the church, Her father rolled beside her, her hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t.” Kilorn hissed as she passed. She huffed. Cameron winged him with the back of her hand straight in the stomach, and they waited for the priest to give his first blessing and instruct them all to sit.

When the priest pronounced the hallowed words, “Anyone who objects to such a union, should stand now, or forever hold your peace.” Cameron’s fingers were digging into Kilorn’s side holding him silent. The priest inhaled. Cameron relaxed. Kilorn whimpered and looked away.

“She doesn’t love him.” 

The congregation gasped. Heads swirled. Cameron looked at Kilorn to explain his unusally high tone, but he too was looking for the source of the voice.

“Excuse me?” The priest said it like he’d been bumped in the hallway, then with more force as it registered, “Pardon, me, my dear–”

“She doesn’t love him. And they shouldn’t be married,” Evangeline declared.

“I think they know their own hearts,” Elara glared, standing and accusing.

“Then why was she kissing Cal last week in the hallway at the Holiday Inn?” Evangeline started pulling at her hands, ripping of her glove. Cal looked stunned, white faced, and unresponsive.

“What?” Maven whirled on Mare, and she turned red. He started yelling. 

Mare didn’t explain, or talk, or move. 

Cal kept his eyes on Evangeline’s struggle. Elara was on her feet and moving to her son’s side. 

Tiberius was heaving himself up with a loud, “Cal, what is going on?”

Evangeline pried her ring off her finger and threw it at Cal, who watched it fall through his hands instead of facing the bellowing of his father. Evangeline’s hand crossed his cheek just when he looked up, catching him completely unaware. Cameron could have sworn she saw a little wink before Evangeline stormed off to the comforting arms of Elaine. 

The church hung in the silence between startling smack and the impending chatter of gossip and astonishment that waited for someone, anyone, to make the next move.

It was Mare, looking at Maven, then at Cal, then locking confused eyes with Kilorn. “I need a minute,” she croaked, bunching up the overstuffed skirt and moving as fast as a bloated marshmallow could move down the erupting aisle.

Cal took the punch to his jaw like a duty he was bound to from birth. Maven flexed his hand and shouted curses that made the priest pale. Maven wriggled out of his mother’s grip and disappeared back through the side door. Kilorn had his flask back out of Cameron’s clutch and held it up like a toast to Cal, who cupped his jaw and waved off the chorus of Elara’s mounting shrieks and his father’s heaving scolding.

“Guess it’s not so bad a day after all.” Kilorn smiled broadly, surveying the turmoil all around them.

“Kilorn Warren!” Diana Farley approached from the other side of their pew. He shrank away from her, but Cameron kept him from escaping. “You better wipe the smug off your face and go find her before she runs out into traffic or something.” 

Cameron didn’t have to pry so hard to get the flask before pushing him out and down the aisle.


	13. Rise Red as the Dawn

Prompt:

_He searched for each other through the crowd. Perhaps not intentionally but out of necessity. They hadn’t seen each other in so long, it felt like forever since their fight. His warm eyes met her cold ones. She was exhausted, he noted. Maybe from lack of sleep or stress, maybe even both. He felt terrible. He hadn’t known it would do this to her. But she was closed off from him, still hurt by the sting of his words. She broke their eye contact and slipped away into the rest of the crowd._

Hope you like this. I got a little carried away, I’m not sure if it qualifies as “short”.

**Response:**

Cal straightened the front of his uniform so that the buttons aligned all the way down. He tweaked the collar in a weak attempt to widen it. Anabel’s tailors, all of them reds, all of them silent and fast, had measured him in five minutes and returned in a day with the final product. Thinking of them working overnight made him sick. When he became King, he’d change that. And, in Anabel’s wisdom, he would be claiming the crown in just over an hour.

Silver armies had pushed Maven across the Choke into the Lakelands making him the last prince in Norta. And this made him King. So, the deadline on his promises swiftly approached and implementing his new ideals among the silver courtiers frightened him. He knew well, that a soldier did not usually make a good statesman. Anabel advised caution, patience, and a slow pace of change. On the other hand, he knew the Guard would keep tabs, Mare would be watching. If she could see the changes. If he could make them happen, maybe she’d come back to him. Maybe she’d… be his mistress.

A King shouldn’t feel so disgusting on the day of his coronation, but the thought of Mare subsisting on the sidelines of his life, that he would even offer her that, shamed him. If there was ever an indicator that he didn’t deserve her that she didn’t deserve his repugnant presence, that one thought surely was it. Mare Barrow would be no one’s mistress, least of all his.

Separating himself from Evangeline, from House Samos… the Rift kingdom, would take more statesmanship than getting reds better conditions, pay, and education. And without managing both his promises to Mare and breaking the engagement, he had no leg to stand on in getting her back.

Wanting, he had to stop wanting. Kings don’t have the luxury of acting on desires, he reminded himself. A King’s duty is to his country, not to himself. A King puts his court before his personal gains. A King does not chase after boyhood fantasies. A King is not supposed to enjoy his life, but live it for others.

But he knew one King who regretted ever agreeing to the crown.

Julian smiled kindly at him in the throne room. Maven’s silent stone monstrosity had to be left in place, no ability could take it down and he hesitated to assign reds to break it apart by hand. Cal kept his distance, but stared at it weary and hard as he proceeded to the platform in the center of the room. His court surrounded him. Many of the colors he’d grown to expect were missing, their loyalties too much of a question or their presence blatantly unwanted. But filling their positions are new dignitaries from Montfort, Piedmont, and the Scarlet Guard. As he approached, the crimson-clad guardsmen turned their backs and looked away. An oddly peaceful protest for an organization that had murdered silvers in that very room.

Julian had schooled him for hours on the exact phrases to repeat. His voice sounded like someone else, booming out and around the chamber but getting lost among the bodies, no echo returning. He felt isolated, shrouded in silence. He completed the phrases and slid down to his knees to receive the crown on his head. He rose, a silver king. The clapping and cheers from his silver court were muffled by the acoustics of the room and without the sharpness he expected. The surreal moment ended, Julian directing him off the platform and through the throngs into the chambers to the south.

He changed from the uniform of a soldier into one resembling his fathers, a suit he and Maven had pulled out of the closet and worn around playing dress-up as kids. Looking in the mirror, he didn’t recognize himself as a King. He still looked like… like… Cal. He looked like himself, untouched by the transformation and yet saddled with the labors and expectations and the regalia of a king. His eyes lingered in the mirror, Julian’s hand at the crook of his arm dragged him away.

The volume hummed through the double doors of the chambers. A couple hundred people rambling and shouting over each other, waiting for his reappearance. The doors opened and released a wave of noise knocking him back on his heels, only Julian’s persistent pressure on his arm kept him moving forward. The hall erupted, even louder.

“Wave, smile.” Julian hissed into his ear and let him step in front of him.

Cal forced his hand up and his teeth out, unnatural. He glanced around, the Sentinels took their positions keeping the crowd three feet back, four of them making a square around him as they moved slowly through the court. Following the sentinels in front of him, Cal exited the chamber and headed toward the palace entrance, the crowd behind him following at a jovial distance. The broad doors were splayed open to the outside, the common people, and the true citizenry waiting for him. He passed through the arch and took in the predominantly silver front lines along the parade route. Off to his left, up in the trees, he saw red, more Guards members, lounging on the branches, unaffected by the pomp of the parade. Kilorn and Ada nestled together, his arm brought an apple to his lips, and his other held her to keep her balance. Her keen eyes bore back at Cal, evaluating everything, absorbing everything.

Good for Kilorn, Cal thought, stepping past his regret. His mind drifted easily off of the crowd around him, the silvers cheering, the reds on the hills or the buildings, silent, forced either by habit or fear of reprisal. But Kilorn and Ada and the Guard, they chose to come and watch the spectacle. To show themselves as a quiet resistance still within the country. Eyes that would judge him, watch him, and then, maybe, tear down the tentative peace for his failed promises. He couldn’t fail. That’s what they wanted him to know. If he failed, they’d come for him. If he didn’t change, they would make a change.

They rounded the corners into the wide high-street flanked by apartments and store fronts. Women hung out of the buildings and again, on the next corner, a red rag waved outside of closed windows. Driving their warning home with exhausting repetition. Waiting at the end of the procession, a group gathered outside of the arena which had been transformed from the container of a spectacle to the elegant host for the celebration. The party, unlike the crown ceremony and the parade, was meant for the citizens including the red citizens, at his insistence.

Once inside, his sentinels joined a dozen more and split up to monitor the guests entering at the doorways, two shadowing him at a respectful distance. For a handful of minutes, only silvers of the court entered. But not to miss yet another opportunity, members of the Guard sauntered through in barely clean uniforms and civilian clothes. General Farley looked around flanked by a sea of sworn enemies of his silver state.

What was the saying? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?

“Your highness.” Farley smirked, offering a handshake and not a bow. Those closest to her followed suit, except Tramy Barrow didn’t extend his hand at all.

“General. Thank you for the show of… um, support,” he commented, scratching the back of his head and looking around.

“You’re a smart lad, Cal. Command has strict instructions to our local and auxiliary forces if this experiment of yours doesn’t head the right way.”

“Thank you for the reminder, enjoy the party.” Cal pushed past her and headed towards the Samos representatives. Like smoke and fire, if he found Ptolemus, he would find Evangeline. Keeping up the appearances of an engaged couple entailed a lot of prancing around within inches of each other, but they’d already agreed to touch as little as possible.

“Your highness.” Evangeline dipped, dutiful. Ptolemus offered a fuller bow fitting Cal’s new title.

“May I borrow my bride?” Cal asked.

“Of course, my lord.” Evangeline offered her hand and he allowed her to set it on his forearm. “I thought we agreed to keep this to a minimum.”

“Yeah, well, this is a formal event.”

“You must want something out of flashing me around the room. So, what can I do for you?” She drove home the business of their relationship.

“Exactly what you’re doing now. We put in our time, we leave in two hours, together.” The music started, the live band beginning an upbeat waltz. “How about we dance?”

“Better than standing and talking.” She agreed, her feet moving fluidly across the floor.

“Thank your father for sending Ptolemus to the coronation.”

“He’s here to set the date for our wedding,” Evangeline huffed.

“What if…”

“Cal. We have to.”

“Do we?”

“If you can secure some other guarantee that you’ll respect my father’s kingdom, I’m all ears.”

Cal sighed, heavy, turning her lightly on the floor and letting himself escape into the “what if” games.

Evangeline demanded his focus by stopping them midstep. “Look, Cal, neither of us asked for this. Neither of us wanted this. But you’re the one that agreed. So either fix it, or shut up about it.” She paused, softened re tone, and added, “I’m sorry my lord but I’m afraid my feet are already tired of all this dancing,”

Cal wondered how long Anabel would wait before yelling at them both. Worse, he wouldn’t be able to use Evangeline’s caustic personality as a shield against the attendees. He could, however, meander his way into the band-stand under the guise of curiosity. He pretended to examine the saxophones and the violins. He watched the drummers and traced the cords for the microphones. He dawdled around through the rows of musicians between songs and shook their hands. The nervous band members bobbed and mumbled, then carried on playing when he’d made it through.

Anabel waited at the side of the stage, her face upturned and expectant. He greeted her with a kiss to the cheek and the placating smile he’d practiced his entire life. She brushed a few hairs off of his suit and patted his cheek.

“Where has your princess gone?”

“I think she left with her sister-in-law. Seems we’re basically married already,” he grumbled.

“A king does not have the luxury—“

“Of acting on his desires. I know.”

“And neither does a Queen. I’ll be sure to address it with her in the morning.”

“Please, wait for breakfast, I’d like to watch.” Anabel twisted her eyebrow up and he apologized under his breath.

“Cal, if there was any other way, the opportunity would have presented itself already. You need the Rift-loyal houses to defeat the Lakelanders. You need them to get your country back once and for all. Maven alive and across the Choke is not a stable situation.”

“I know.”

“Then stop sulking. You are King. You are in charge here. This is a display of your power and generosity. So stop hiding from your responsibilities and talk to your guests.”

Cal’s subconscious lifting of his foot, as if to stamp it, highlighted the reality that he had previously not grasped: he needed to grow up. The games were over and he had lost. The remainder of his life would be exactly what he grew up expecting: duty and responsibilities. These people, all of them dancing around him and eating food from his kitchens, they depended on him. And Anabel was right, they expected a strong King and many questioned if he could hold his ground with the might of the House of Samos, let alone the armies of the Lakelanders and his brother.

He pushed out into the growing crowd, shaking hands, talking, learning names and ranks and engaging reds and new bloods, Scarlet Guard, and silvers. His sentinels kept their distance, eying him closely, even though they had checked everyone at the door. His hand felt greasy and used, tainted by hundreds of hands. He turned and looked for new faces, new colors and found something very familiar: the brown curls and stunned eyes of the lightning girl. And just as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared, folded behind arms and limbs and moved by bodies.

“Mare!” He called out, looking over and glancing just her shoulder. He followed. Pushing and excusing himself, remembering his manners only barely. Then he saw her through the part, looking at him, mouthing his name. Then the guests closed in and he lost her again. He shuffled in her general direction. She stayed just out of his reach, her eyes also seeking his. He struggled to breath, she ran from him. Her pace, her angles through the crowd so nearly a retreat, except she kept stopping and looking back. He had chosen the crown, and she wanted nothing to do with it, at least that’s what he thought until she appeared at his coronation party. He moved forward, one last push to catch her, and then she appeared in the crowd slightly behind him a blur in his periphery. They’d crossed and she confirmed she wasn’t running away but trying to lead him. To speak with him more privately, maybe?. His heard swirled around the feelings of forgiveness even if his prayer for it had yet to be given.

Mare waited walled in by the backs of a boisterous group of silver soldiers at the edge of the dance floor. Cal closed the distance. He gaped at her and the simplicity in her beauty flawless compared to the garish display of his bride-to-be. Mare’s plain, form fitting dress left less to the imagination than Evangeline’s sharp edges. Mare’s curves settled on small bones and pink skin begged to be touched and set aflame with a hot blush. She truly was the one thing he desired most.

The band began playing and hands pushed them together and onto the dance floor. Cal held Mare carefully, with an ease they’d acquired during late night practices in his room. She responded to his every touch, her hips coming in to meet his body. She shivered and he blazed.

“Mare, I didn’t think you’d be here. If this is–”

Mare pushed her head up and her mouth next to his ear. Her lips tickled the small hairs of his earlobe. His nerves tingled with pleasure and need.

Her voice stayed a whisper, raspy and ethereal, but each word came out as a rushed staccato. “Cal, it’s not too late. You don’t need Samos. The Guard is strong and the New Bloods are stronger. Montfort is prepared to send even more reinforcements and we’re gathering Piedmont New Bloods by the dozens.”

“Mare, I don’t… I thought.” He pulled away, but her hand on the back of his neck drew him back down to her.

“You think that because you believe that blood doesn’t matter, you can change things? Look around. Look at every red in this place. If they aren’t the Guard, read the fear on their faces. Nothing has changed. It’s just not in the open anymore. And this will continue as long as you have that goddamned crown on your head.”

“Mare, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to.” Mare dropped his hand, leaving behind a note. Her hand shook and she slipped away.

Cal searched again, looking from face to face: silvers laughing, silvers dancing, silvers drinking from cups brought on trays carried by red girls. Red men lined the walls arms crossed and eyes down until his gaze fell in their direction and then the unmistakable fear flashed behind smiles and jovial actions. Mare was right, she was always right, this was a display of power, silver power, to show how much power they still had over him.

Her note was simple. “Rise, red as the dawn, and I will be waiting for you. But I will not wait forever.”


	14. Just two Bros

Kilorn came through the treeline into the clearing with three rabbits and his gun. Farrah yawned and passed by the fire with little more than a glance. Kilorn watched longingly as she left. Shade’s chortling huff drew his eyes into rolling waves, he shrugged down next to the fire, back against a large rock and pulled out his knife.

“You like Farrah, eh?” Shade held one hand out for a rabbit while the other fished in his pocket for his blade.

Kilorn tossed a carcass over and huffed, almost decided to stay silent, but couldn’t help himself. “I don’t get her.”

“What’s not to get?”

“I mean, we spend almost all day together, she keeps brushing into me. I swear she even did that thing girls do where they like hook your hand with their pinky. You know?”

“Yeah, that move. I’m familiar. So, why you sitting here instead of walking after that?” Shade smirked.

“That’s the thing. She brushed up against me and her pinky hooked, so I thought, awesome, this time I’m gonna grab her hand and see where this goes.”

“And?” Shade pushed.

“And, she acted like she got stung by a bee. Hasn’t talked to me since.”

“Ouch.”

“Like, I didn’t read that wrong did I?” Kilorn had ripped through the process of skinning his first rabbit and was onto the second.

“I don’t know, your other head have wishful thinking? Besides, she’s a bit old for you. And way too quiet.”

“You think she just sees me as a kid or something?”

“Naw, just an angsty teenager.” Shade poked.

“Fuck you.” Kilorn turned sour. 

“Come on, everyone here knows about how you feel about Mare. Farrah probably just doesn’t want to be your rebound.”

“You can’t rebound when you weren’t even in play,” Kilorn grumbled.

“Women, the easy ones are just for fun, but the ones that make you work make it worth your while.”

Kilorn played with some phrases related to working harder for Mare, but that line between friend and friend’s brother held him back. 

“So… how hard you have to work to get Farley?”

“Farley?” Shade mimicked surprise, but when Kilorn raised his eyebrows, he knew the jig was up. “Well, cat’s out of that bag, I guess. Look, Diana and I don’t–”

“Diana? Really? Wow. Shade Barrow, not only did you get her first name but you remembered it.”

“Shut your mouth, Warren.” Shade laughed and tossed the rabbit pelt at him.

“What, you gonna tell _Diana_ on me?” Kilorn tossed the pelt to the side of the fire.


	15. Pointless

**Someone requested Queenstrial from a different POV. I hate how Tumblr doesn’t save a copy of asks!! But I did write it down. And here is one.**

 

Evangeline Samos. Evangeline Samos. Evangeline Samos.

Her name sits on the tip of everyone’s tongue except mine and most of the other girls don’t say it either. But their mothers and aunts and who ever else they’ve packed into the preparation rooms certainly are using it in vain. 

“Evangeline and her parents came two days early and ate lunch with the Queen,” one hushed gossip babbled to two others. They all feigned shock.

“That’s not fair! No one else got an audience with the Queen.”

“Oh, please, they picked her two years ago when we all came to Summerton for the August feast. Remember the tea set she pulled together for the Queen? Made it out of that old suite of armor and Elara was smitten. Well as smitten as a snake can be.” The triad laugh and suck in long breaths at the end, falling silent while they all thought of the next thing to say.

My mother rolls here eyes and continues to stitch blue ribbons into my braids. The woman may be stating the truth, but what bothers my mother is that they already know it. In fact, at least two of them had the same exact conversation just fifteen feet further down the hall an hour age. Why they bother pretending it’s something new to say is beyond me and well beyond my mother. She’s never been one for gossip to begin with and certainly not making it for gossip’s sake. And since we left Paracove, the ancestral home of the House of Iral, she’s been nothing but terse and to-the-point. We aren’t here because we want to be and if I were to bet, none of them are either. No one’s here because they think they actually have a chance at their daughter being picked for queen, well, except House Samos. We’re all here because a sentinel showed up carrying an official invitation to enter the contest and would only leave with our agreement. 

I watched my father thumb the edges of the note card and scrape the corner through his beard for fifteen minutes, pacing in my Grand Mother’s parlor. The silent sentinel stood in the hallway just inside the door and waited. My father sighed, nodded his head at my grand mother, and then returned to mumble his regards to the King. Only then did the Sentinel carry our commitment back to the palace.

“Heaven help you, my girl,” he sighed, one hand on my cheek.

“Evangeline Samos will be picked.” My mother patted his arm, but her assurances fell short of bringing the doom off his face.

“I know that. I’m not worried about their pick for their first born. It’s that witch’s son I’m concerned about.”

That conjured shivers up my spine. Our house was barely cordial with the palace, but our armies and our intelligence capabilities are invaluable in a country deep in a perpetual war. My Aunt, everyone calls her the Panther, had been instrumental in gaining the only ground in the last fifty years. Her work as an agent, a spy, had given Norta the upper-hand and because of her, the boundary in the Choke advanced over a hundred yards. But something else had happened when King Tiberius took his new wife, Elara Merandus. Something about an uncle of mine disappearing off the battlefield and, according to the whispers I overheard when I was young, my grand mother believes he was interrogated and murdered by the kin of our Queen.

Around me, maids rush and mothers preen daughters with no possible claims. But at least they are a distraction from my mother’s fingers tugging on my tender roots. We’re all safe from actually competition with Evangeline Samos, but you wouldn’t know it from watching them scurry and burst into rages. Red maids and tailors dash out of the way, some not fast enough. I watch Wren Skonos heal one caught by a pair of scissors in her arm. At least one of these girls might be bearable for the festivities that follow selection. We’re all expected to remain at court for the entire month. I plan to find the library, or a cozy nook on the roof. Maybe an open window will serve me well in unlocking the fate of whoever will be stuck with the _witch’s son_ , as my father put it. For myself, for my house, I’ll put on a show of our abilities, just enough to let them know we’re still skilled, still strong. But I don’t intend on doing anything spectacular or revealing. Someone else will have to light up the stage, I won’t be drawing the queen to our door. I have no intention on every becoming a princess.


	16. Eulogy

I wish I could say I am glad that I met her, but there’s too many conflicted feelings to use a positive descriptor. I met her. My life changed. I suffered, but she also brought joy within the destruction. She brought hope when I was hopeless. She was a promise embodied. I followed her; we all followed her carried by her will to survive more than her decisiveness or sense of direction — which she lacked on many days. She was not perfect in her leadership or guidance. She was not stoic when she needed to be strong nor was she ever weak. She bolstered me and our cause.

She is the only loss in my life that I have had the chance to properly mourn. And this grief compounds with all my grief into an unbearable anguish. This unrelenting hurt inside of me does not ebb and will not quickly wane. I know, truly, that the only thing which could have helped extinguish my soul’s suffering has, today, been returned to the earth. I must mourn on my own without her help. I am locked in such a way that I cannot even say these truths out loud or else my ears will shatter while I sob. No one needs to hear my words to feel this hurt, nor would I want to share it with anyone. So pen and paper bare witness and testify to the vastness of the universe: I was whole for but a moment with her in my life, and I will never be whole again.


	17. On the Ramparts

The rain ices into sleet, they’re trying new challenges to gain an upper hand. I slip. Then she slips. We bump back to back, her head cracking between my shoulder blades. Despite the ache, it’s a small comfort to know she’s right behind me, shielded by me on at least one side. In all my years at the front lines, with my entire legion, I’ve never faced a barrage like this with a partner like her. It’s exhilarating. It’s the only time war has felt thrilling. 

We are strong apart but stronger together. Her inexperience forces me to think further ahead, to make choices that aren’t just about my own skin or my own lines, but about her as well. We hold our line well, easily even. But it’s my experience that keeps me focused and her lack of it that concerns me.

The wall crumbles and my back feel the cold of her fall but not the absence of her electricity. She is down but lightning still zings through the air flickering shadow monsters out of chaotic shoots of foliage. Then the water falls harder, faster, sucked up from under us and dumped right back down. I focus on what little I can do in the deluge, burning stem and trunk and wet, green, organic matter into billowing clouds of black smoke. The ice catches some of the particulates but they still cloud my view with tears. I’m not immune to smoke.

The splits open. I can’t spark. I feel like I’m one gulping breath away from drowning which already has me in a panic. But I can’t remember when I last heard the static of her ability, or saw the flash bounce off bricks and clouds. I can’t remember and it can’t matter, not yet. I can’t think about her lost in the rubble. 

I can only think of the finality of my life. The lives I stop with each burst and blow are no less important, but they aren’t mine and I can’t think about that. I have ended thousands of lives and I will continue to heap body on body just so I can see the next dawn. I can’t focus. I must focus. Mare is on her own. I will find her when this is over. But I can’t help but also count the seconds. I know it’s been too long for hope. 

Then it’s a choice: fight for me, or fight for her.

This is not my fight. These people are not my enemy by my choice. They are my friends and my warriors and my own goddamed brother. Which leaves only one choice, if I cannot fight for me, I must fight for her. 

I pull on the heat of the smoldering piles that bake beneath bodies and I gather it all together into my palms. I start again. One stem. One trunk. One silver. Then another and another and another. I fight on.


	18. For the Kids

“A temper furious enough to evoke legends. Sour moods that rival concentrated lemon juice. Fireballs at his finger tips and targets around every corner… Rarely regal enough to conjure the image of royalty. He’s just a man with little left besides the horrors of waking up and no resolve to end his old torments.” The children start to gather. Kilorn hushes them and starts again. “For decades he’s trained to tear men apart!”

“God damn it, Kilorn. I can hear you.” Cal scowls and pulls his jacket tighter.

Kilorn leans into the he gathered bunch of new blood children, his voice dropping into ominous whispers. “Now kids…. pay his Highness no mind. Gather in. Let me tell you a story all about how a life got flipped, turned upside down.”

“You tell one more scary story about me and I’ll turn you into charcoal.” Cal flicked a rock off the wall, bouncing it around the corner. Kilorn lead the kids in a giggle fit and moved down the hall.

“Now, let’s see… There once was an ill tempered dragon who breathed fire! And thought every story was about him.”


	19. This is the End

**Tumblr prompt: "Our eyes meet. I stare him down with a harsh unyielding glare. This is the final straw. After a few moments, he looks down, almost as if he's ashamed. Like that's even possible. 'I'm sorry,' he manages to murmur. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean. I swear, I never meant-' 'Stop. You aren't sorry.' He looks at me, silently asking what I could possibly mean. 'Actions speak louder than words," I continue. 'You apologize, but you never change. This is the last time.' And with that, I stalk away."**

Here you go, anon… this is the only direction I thought I could take this prompt….

I’ve had rough days in the past four years. I’ve walked until my toes couldn’t lift off the ground. I’d worn through the souls of three pairs of shoes. I once road a horse for three days only stopping because it needed rest. I have ached and fainted from fatigue. I am the most prepared new mother that has ever given birth to a baby in Piedmont. 

She cried, I came. She fussed, I checked. She needed and I gave her everything I could. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had nerve endings, but none of it stopped me from being who she needed when she needed it. I will never fail this little girl.  
The hospital only had so many rooms and staff to go around. There were far worse injuries than a post partum woman and a healthy infant. When they started to hint at my leaving, I was ready to go. The day of pacing from her bassinet to my bed and back again didn’t prepare me for the acrobatic maneuvers in putting on pants. My stomach is loose and wobbly neither the washboards I had developed over years of war nor the plump belly-shelf I’d grown to expect. The way the elastic tugged at me felt like pressing bruises. Wrangling my swollen and sore breasts into a bra took almost superhuman patience as the nurse brought one, then two others, than a third that finally fit, for the most part.

I walked in small half-steps to her bassinet, Ruth Barrow’s hand pressed gently on Clara’s chest, rocking her swaddled body back and forth while she hummed. Ruth was a determined and practical woman, maybe the only other person I could imagine helping me raise Clara. I had my eye out for that inevitable need, but that was weeks away. At that moment, I just needed to carry my baby to a room we would, for what ever time we could, call home. 

She arched her back when I pulled her up and but she settled with my arm beneath her spine. I had never held a baby before her. I had never trusted myself to know how and the unnatural idea gave me anxious shivers. The first time she was laid into my arms, I thought those nerves would flit away with sudden confidence, but I’m still careful, cautious, and concerned that she’ll wriggle out of my arms. I wonder if being a mother will ever feel natural or if it will always feel a little like a mask, a game, a challenge.

Ruth opens the door and collects the bag of items that I’m taking home: pads for the blood, blankets for the baby, and the clothes I wore when I arrived in labor. Each half step out the door and into the hallway pulsed a pain through my core. My vertebrae wobbled into my organs with each swaying motion. My abdomen tightens weak muscles to counter the strain. My legs didn’t want to move fast enough to balance me against gravity. Every motion exhausted my body a little more until I didn’t know what kept me upright and I feared falling. Ruth’s arm on my back was meant to be a rudder, but I used it like a foundation for each move.

A cough from the end of the hallway stopped me in my awkward stumble. The colonel, his hands held a hat between them, his balding head tipped to shine in the lights. My father approached carefully, quietly, with deference to my unease. He looked humble like the farmer he used to be. He looked nervous; ashamed, if that’s even possible. Him being there, in the hospital, being in a chair in the hallway for days - according to the nurses- it was the final straw.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to murmur, his shuffle bringing him slowly closer. “I’m sorry, I never meant—”

“Stop. You aren’t sorry. I’ve been in there for days. I screamed for you. I wanted you. And you never came. It’s always the Guard first. It’s always about retribution and vengeance and violence. I needed my family to be with me. I wanted my father there for me, for my daughter. And you didn’t even come into the room when it was done. You apologize, but you never change. This is the last time. Your family is completely dead.” 

I managed to hold my tears in until the door. Strong and resolute until it was just me and Ruth and Clara. Clara Barrow would only ever be a Barrow. There would be no more Farley’s in our line.


	20. NSFW, Fade

Check below… totally going R… mature… sexual overtones on this one…. FADE (Farley x Shade)

* * *

 

Soldiers are rough and my body wants the scratch of callouses and the bruises of being squeezed too tight. I want to be worn ragged and exhausted. I need to give up my limbs and my being to someone powerful, strong, and subtly out of control. I’ve been waking up thinking about it, fantasizing until climax about the soreness of my last romp with a captain.

Ever since Shade was pulled back from the field, he’s been out on assignments. His ability is baffling and so useful, he barely gets any rest. Our in-person interactions have been succinct to say the least. I give orders, he takes them. But he doesn’t just nod and salute like a good boy should. He sasses back and yesterday he teased me. All signs that he just might be game to help meet my needs.

It’s not going to be the first time I’ve slept with a subordinate. It can get messy. Shade is just put together too well for me not to give in to the impulse. One or both of us could be dead in the next battle, and I don’t see the point of keeping life clean with that hanging over my head.

He’s back from five days in the Lakelands organizing with the Guard in the far north. In the back corner of the mess hall, he’s complaining about the bitter cold of the tundra and the taste of seal meat, and he looks more alive than the walking corpses around him. Rations have been short and the troupes are wilting. I’ll be discussing solutions with my father in the morning, but for now, I have a different agenda.

“Barrow.”

“Sir?” He and the others stand, snapping to attention like their conscription training has taught them. The way he says, sir instead of ma’am is one of those buttons he pushes on the regular.

“Debrief, now.”

“In public? I must protest.” His friends laugh for a moment, and then silence themselves.

“Careful what you wish for, Barrow. A lot of things can befall a soldier without witnesses,” I examine the button on my shirt sleeve to come off as bored. I let out a sigh and turn before snapping over my shoulder, “Now, Barrow.”

Shade follows me, head down in concentration and I hope his heart rate is already up. When we turn to the residence section, where I have a private room, I hear the stutter in his pace.

“Captain?”

We’re two feet apart in an empty hallway when I make my case, to his astonishment.

“Barrow, you’ve been a thorn in my side since we extracted you from the front. And there can only be one conceivable reason why you’d be so foolish as to crack jokes at my expense. You can walk back to your buddies and pretend that none of this happened, and that’s perfectly acceptable. You have my word that nothing comes back on you. Or, as I have alluded, I’ve been paying attention. And you can follow me and see where this goes.”

“Yes, sir,” he smirks, taking the first step forward. 

I make sure there’s still distance between us until the door is closed. But his greedy hands might move faster than light.

The tangerines that have become a routine and tired item in the mess hall cover the savory remnants of his dinner. I’m shocked at how his lips have transformed the flavor into something I could crave. I’m even more shocked when the hard press of his body has finesse and premeditation. Not a single note of brutish, mindlessness taints the process of removing each other’s clothes.

He has the sharp edges on his fingertips and palms that I’ve been dreaming of, but he uses them like painter might use his brushes. They tickle and tug at my skin, goosebumps prickling down my neck and shoulders and the shivers flow down my spine to everywhere. While I usually have to force a man into control, Shade is already directing my body beneath his. I suppose calling him to my room is a direct command to bring me pleasure, but I’m also not selfish. 

I measure my turn by small bursts of pleasure before I turn the tables. With him between my fingers and then tasting him in my mouth, he’s still and shocked, taken aback at what I’m willing to give. It started out as my need, but he’s so good with his tongue that I’m committed to bringing him back again and again until we’ve tired of each other’s tricks.

Sex is sex, just like a good run is just another run in a lifetime of training–until it’s not. And somewhere under Shade’s insistent and careful motions, I forget about bruises and roughness. I don’t crave the crush of a brute and the climax of clashing libidos. I’m bending under his hands and his lips. He’s so careful and gentle that it’s not a climax but a tumble that rolls over and over until I crash into some barrier that can’t take anymore without bursting.

I don’t even mind when he settles into sleep behind me, arms around me like I’ve never allowed. The man behind the covert letters, the one that won me through his mind, has just completed a coup d’etat. I am not prepared to ever let him out of my bed, or maybe my sight, at least not until I uncover his flaws. Until he disappoints, like they all do. But I hope he won’t and in the same breath hope my head clears by the morning and I cast him back out to his routines and assignments unencumbered by the rush of emotions I hate to feel.


	21. The Cost of a Revelation

**Tumblr prompt: she stares into my fiery eyes as i stare into the storm in hers. she pushes herself deeper into my chest where i can feel her breathing, her tears. where i can feel HER. “he’s gone,” her voice shaky as ever, “i think i’ll miss him.” she says as she pulls herself away from me and turns toward the window. “good bye cal.” she says as she opens up the window. before i can realize what’s happening, she’s already climbing on the window sill.... (you can have the pleasure of choosing who the ‘he’ is.**

Hello Anon… You tried to tie me into something here, so it took a bit to really think through all the options. And I took a small liberty, as I feel is my entitlement, but I hope this hits you exactly how you wanted, even if it’s not how you expected.

TW: Suicide, war, death, destruction

* * *

 

The tattered remains of our army is barely past the adrenaline of the fight, some are just starting to take stock of their surroundings. I watch one man glance from the silver blood pooled around his feet up to the soldier at his right. He doesn’t recognize the man. He wipes his face and turns on the spot looking at another soldier, and another, and another, moving from just glances into frenetic searching. He weaves through bodies looking down. He turns over corpses. Finally, he calls a name. Then more start calling. More start looking. By our numbers, most will not be reunited with the ones they seek. The stone is slick, a swamp filled with blood, bodies, and protruding weapons.

This is war. This is sorrow just surfacing to snuff out hope. And somehow, it’s still a victory. Watching them search, I get an inch like I’ve forgotten something on my way here. There’s something, someone… I should be searching for Mare. But she’s not here. None of the Guard is here. They’re off on their own mission, their own set of targets. She could be cold on a floor a thousand miles away or just laying down to sleep safely tucked under blankets. And I won’t know the difference for a day, a week. Maybe I’ll never know.

I can’t think about her. About that. About what lies outside of my sphere, my choice. I can only think of the legion around me. These are my people. My soldiers. And they have just won me a great victory at great cost.

After a battle, the healers swarm in. We have twelve assigned to the keep and twenty to cover the larger area outside the walls. I haven’t seen a single one, not yet. I hear a need for them rising around me.

Evangeline drags a sword behind her. It’s the one mechanical, scraping sound among the groans and sobs of the wounded and the cries of the survivors. She looks lost in thought or maybe just lost. She’s given up on holding her armor in place, the black tunic is all that remains of her shining iron gear. Blood trickles from her ear down her neck and more coats her pants and her arms. She strides over bodies, picking a wondering path between limbs. I’m relieved. She’s alive. But she’s not okay. Someone she loves is dead. I hope it’s not Elaine.

She makes her way one step at a time, grief marring her face in the last six strides. Her arms around me and her face pressed into my chest illustrates just how much our relationship has changed. The comfort I offer is not enough, but it’s still what she sought out, and I give it freely. I don’t want her to hurt anymore than I want to kill. But whatever has happened, it’s one more thing on the laundry list of horrible things that I can’t change.

Helpless, she stares into my eyes and I see the storm swirling behind hers. I want to know, but I don’t want to rush her into admitting what she’s already discovered. So I hold her cheek, stroking at the drying blood with my thumb.

“He’s gone. She’s gone.” She’s shaking, blinking tears over her lids and down her cheeks. She pushes me, yelling, furious, combining grief and pain, “He’s gone! You took… you took her… _them_ from me!”

He. Her. _Them._ Both of _them_.

I shake my head. There aren’t words. There isn’t consolation. There’s nothing in the world to comfort her. Everyone she treasured is gone and I am a distant catalyst that has ripped them away and it’s all true. One silver coin, and this is where we are: torn apart.

She wipes at her face and looks around her, sudden realization and recognition. She covers her mouth and sucks in a breath, horrified at the bodies piled deep. She turns on the spot. She looks and wishes not to see. She closes her eyes and wants never to feel. She is shaking with everything and nothing and I would give anything to let her keep at least one of the people she loves.

Her eyes return to me and I can sense we have the same thought at the same time. I am all she has left, and she could never love me. Not after today. Not after the last year. Not after everything we’ve been through. There will never be love. And we both know there’s no substitute for it.

I let her step away. I let her wonder further through the bodies and towards the blasted out windows. I watch her tug at her hair and hope she finds some solace in the distance she puts between us.

She picks at the glass. Her forearm rams through it flinging the shards and the remnants of the wooden seal out into the courtyard six or seven stories below. I start towards her, but I’m too late.

“Goodbye, Cal.”

I fly over the soldiers and slip through the blood. I try even though I know I’ll never close the distance. I look even though I never want to remember. For the briefest moment, her hair is fanned out and her body is close enough to contrast with the ground. But the further she falls, the dimmer she becomes, until I can only assume the sound I hear is her rejoining those that she’s lost.

Another horrible thing on a really long list of horrible things. All for a crown, a thrown, an imagined peace.


	22. Rumor has it

**Tumblr Prompt: On top of all of her duties, the rumors had crept into her mind. Rumors of truths and lies and assumptions. She flopped down on her bed overwhelmed with fatigue. He entered the room shortly after, wrapping his arms around her. "Rumors?" She nodded. "You know they aren't true." "They are." "Even if they were, you know better than to give in." She paused for a moment. "Lie to me." He looked at her bewildered. "Lie to me. Make me feel like it's only us." Without hesitating, he murmured, "I hate you**

* * *

 

Healers heal, they don’t hurt. It’s a core value that she now realizes some in her house don’t uphold. When she asked her cousin, Bellona, why she was helping to make more silent stone, Bellona looked at her perplexed. And slathered on a bitter treatment made worse by how deeply she’d earned it.

“I guess the Prince is light on pillow talk, or I suppose that’s not what he has you for.”

There’s no response to that. Indignation was impossible after the full second it took for her to absorb it. By the time she had breath in her lungs, she couldn’t deny it. But she also couldn’t describe her relationship with Ptolemus without bringing impropriety down on herself. Her mother already couldn’t look at her. Worse, Ptolemus hadn’t talked to her about silent stone at all, and lately, there’d been less and less talk on pillows even though there had been more nights together. Maybe Bellona was right.

Bellona touched her arm and her expression shifted sad and her eyebrows tilted with pity. “I guess in this condition, we’ll all see where you stand before next winter.”

Wren turned, holding her breath and walked away, straight to her mother. Even though her conduct had brought on a new meaning to the term shame, there was nowhere else she could go. She couldn’t sense for herself if Bellona was right, but she also had no reason to doubt her. And her mother, having had two children, she should know something about it—or at least could find a healer in the family that could be discrete.

Sprawled out on the mattress in the small apartment she preferred to share with Ptolemus, she cried into her pillow. Three hours and a gentle touch from her great-aunt Wonita, and she could feel the walls whispering her secret. Conducting an affair in the open had not been her goal. She hadn’t planned any of it, least of all to be producing a child before Elaine. Not just a child, but the bastard child of the future Rift King. Undoubtedly, when a Magnetron appears among the ranks of House Skonos, the real judgment—from the other houses—will start.

When Ptolemus pushed through the doors, the only thoughts she had were rooted in a deep, anxious dread, and a pervasive wondering about what took him so long. Surely, the walls had whispered to him hours ago?

“Tired?” He sinks onto one knee on the edge of the bed over an arms-length away.

She nods and doesn’t move.

“Because of the rumors?”

Wren shakes, constricting herself to just cry and not sob. She nods.

“They’re not true?” His hand touches her skin, a flat palm on her calf.

“And if they are?”

“Even if they were, you’d know better than to give in, to let them see you cry.” He lays down next to her, his face on the pillow and his hand on her back.

“Lie to me,” she whispers. He rolls back a half inch, waiting for context, a clue. “Lie to me. Tell me this is just between us. Lie to me.” She demands.

He told her the only lie he could bare, a small smirk parting his lips, “I hate you. I loath you. You’ve destroyed my happiness.”

She crumples into relieved tears, letting his lips touch hers. Between them (and only between them), she is not his mistress— but his wife.

No rumors or pointed judgments could ever remove that one little lie.


	23. Champagne and Regrets

**Tumblr Prompt: "We danced in the moonlight, the midnight air chilling around us. He pulled me close, radiating enough heat to keep me warm. I could stay like this forever. 'But I can't' I thought. 'This would never last.' I tried to slip out of his arms only for him to pull me closer. "Don't go. Stay with me," his eyes pleaded. I wanted to more than anything be here in this moment. Perhaps I was deceiving myself, but I thought I could see the same longing I had for him in his eyes. I hoped this was all real."**   
  


* * *

  
  
Champagne does wonders for betrayal. That first dinner, light years ago, it had tickled my nose and helped me enjoy some of the pageantry around me. It helped me muster through the creeping jealousy every time Evangeline had touched his arm. Of course at the time, I wouldn’t have admitted that it was jealousy. But today, watching them enter the room together, her hand gripping his forearm, it was all I could do not to pop every light bulb over her head.  
  
I remember her in the bowl of bones, she yelled, “He was supposed to be mine.” So maybe its not just for the comfort of his familiar touch, but also to sink another sign post into his skin for her to find. Because while she claims him for the title, he was actually mine. And I’m drunk enough to be petty.  
  
He likes it when I trace my tongue along the tendons where they attach to his collarbone. I helped him discover it in the woods, in the mud, on a carefree day when the thunder pushed us deep into the bushes and the rain covered our trail. Beneath my lips, I pull his skin between my teeth and he arches into me. His hips sink me deeper into a mattress much softer than any red has ever imagined. The feel of his heat almost burns.  
  
He pulls away, bracelets falling before his shirt. And I see the mark, pale and round, my mark. I give into his hands. Into his lips. Into his head pushing my face to the side so he can tease my ear. I recover and force his chin up, another shudder of pleasure under my marking mouth. I repeat it, over and over, little by little, the same two places. She will know I was here for weeks, unless he gets healed.  
  
The rest is a foray into dangerous territory. He pushes and pulls and there’s an animal unleashed somewhere between two sheets, but I don’t keep up long enough to know which of us growls hungrier for the other.  
  
I can’t take the heat.  
  
I can’t take the reality.  
  
I can’t spend the night in his bed daydreaming on the last time. And this will be the last time–I swear it when I turn him over. I grind it into fact between us with the swivel of my hips. I feel it in my lungs when all I can do is gasp. And I recognize the betrayal of my body because it will never stop wanting this, needing this, begging for this. Just as it begs the moment I leave him sleeping in bed.


	24. Running to Forget

Inspired by the reminder that Calorn is totally a BroTP worth having. This may be a little off canon, I’m less than sure about the Glass Sword timeline. So let’s just call this a little AU, K?

* * *

 

The first step is slow moving. The rhythm starts one…….. two…….. three…….. four…….. The reluctance of my legs to move goes all the way into my hips and my lower back. It’s cold and early, but there’s better places to be than stuck in my head trying to sleep. So I push past the sharp shock in my inner right knee and through the less than gentle stretch of my calf. One..two..three..four… and my breathing comes faster, too fast.

The next battle is with my lungs, getting them to process slow, deep breaths. In, one…two…three…Out… one…two…three. It’s not my fastest pace, but I don’t want to be winded and dying I want to be struggling for an hour or more. I want to run until my legs barely lift because each pull of my quad will take concentration. The battle I fight will be between me and my resolve.

One..two..three..four.

One..two..three..four.

Shadows of the trees mark my path winding in and around the trunks and stepping on the top of a pointed rock. The pressure on the ball of my foot digs into the stone bruises I’ve earned over weeks of doing exactly this.

One..two..three..four.

A week ago, this spot is where I started falling apart and I wish that each day of this didn’t make me stronger, better. I wish I didn’t have to go so far to be free of what my nightmares gift me. It’s all at once the face of my father, which I crave and hope to see, and the moments when I… run you fool. 

One.two.three.four.

Pushing harder presses my lungs and I have to focus on that for a moment to get my cadence under control. But the stress is doing what I want: I’m not thinking about what I did, I’m thinking about what I’m doing.

I peel my eyes up off my path and try to find the soft blue of the morning sky between the thick branches. There must be a storm coming because all I see is grey.

Then all I see is green tufts of grass and rainbow sparkles mixing with brown debris. My ankle is tugged up above my head behind me. Blood trickles over my teeth and onto my tongue. A quick gasp shoots air back into my lungs. The coughing hurts as much as the stick in my gullet.

I roll over, looking at that grey dome over the island and wince at my scraped hands and swelling lip. A sapling strung to my leg by a thin twine trap bends low. One swift jerk and it snaps off in the middle, giving me the slack I need to pull my leg towards my hands. The snare is a simple loop with a not so simple knot. Kilorn and Farrah must be experimenting. Tracing it back to the tree, I untie it so I can return it.

I don’t feel like running anymore. 

I had hoped to slink back into bed unnoticed to wake up hours later and try again, but from the edge of the camp, I see Kilorn already up and readying the fire to cook breakfast. He has water in a pot because something warm is better than sitting in the cold. He’s been nursing his heart since we got Mare back. I would be doing worse if it had swung the other way. The least I can do is give him the space he seems to want. Unfortunately, I have his snare and I can’t just throw it outside his door like I wanted.

He’s stunned to see me approach from the forest edge, he looks around for anyone to buffer us. When no one comes out to spare him the interaction, he squares to me. I hold out the rope.

“I think you wanted something smaller than–”

“A matchstick?” Kilorn finishes.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t see it.”

“No harm. Well, not to me. You got a bit of blood on your chin.” Kilorn’s motions to show me where and I rub it with my sleeve.

“Again, sorry.” 

I move to turn, but he’s quick to ask, “How is she?”

“You should ask her that.” 

“I… I can’t.”

“You can. She’ll be up in an hour.” I tease him a bit, sometimes humor softens people up, I’m not sure if that’s how Kilorn works, but I’m taking a chance.

“I just figured you’d know, is all.” The bitterness is exactly what I expect.

“I know how she is with me. I’m not gonna pretend that that’s the same as knowing how she’s doing.”

“Hmph.” Kilorn’s huff is satisfied and amused. 

I glance sideways at the entrance to the quarters and hold out the rope. What ever judgement he has for me and Mare, I’m two skinned hands less of a good demeanor.

“What ever you think. Stop. She needs me. I help her. She helps me,” I say with as much exhaustion as I feel.

Kilorn stops his chuckle and snatches the rope out of my hand. He looks ready to burn it in the fire. I didn’t mean to touch a nerve. I’m instantly guilty for being a bad winner.

I tongue the cut in my lip and contemplate carefully what I should say. How to undo the hurt I just inflicted. “You should stop being dense. She needs you more than you know. You would help her more if you talked to her. So stop being an ass and step up.”

“She doesn’t want me.”

Why I bother is rooted in what Mare needs not my desire for Kilorn’s good graces, so I try again. “I don’t have her figured out. It’s impossible. But you’re salt on a wound the way you aren’t talking. So, talk.”

“What do you care? You’d be back with your silvers in a heartbeat if you could. She’s just a toy to you.”

There’s flames on my fingertips and a crick in my neck asking me to throw some heat. It’s hard to control, but he is her friend – for who knows what reason. He steps back, no match for a fire prince.

“Look. You can jab at me how ever you want. But while she is the only reason I’m here, she’s not the only reason I stay. Okay? I have nothing but her and this mission. Nothing. You have no idea what it’s like to lose everyone.”

Kilorn settles back on his heels, not cowing in fear or anything so self-serving, but actually listening. I want him to understand what it feels like to be alone. I want someone to understand, anyone. I need different words and phrases that elude me with frustrating ease. I want so badly to take my pain and push it into him–into anyone– and just get someone to understand. But short of both articulation and ability, I didn’t expect that someone to be him or that moment to be now.

“Me, too. Mare, Shade… Closest thing to family I’ve had since my mom left.”

For once in his life, Kilorn isn’t challenging me. He’s not competing. And he relaxes. He even turns his shoulders away, it’s like a dog showing his belly. He trust me next to him, out of his wary gaze. He bends down to the fire and pokes at the coals. “Sit, I’ve got rose hip tea brewing. I’d say get warm, but do you get cold?”

I ease myself down on a log. “Yeah. I can only regulate to an extent.”

“But you don’t get hot?”

“I’m always hot.” I grin at him and he scoffs, “But I still have a limit.”

It’s weird. We danced around hurtful words and now we sit by the fire and he grills me about my ability, my childhood, my experience at the Choke. He’s not even poking for fodder to push my buttons. And I find I’m getting more than nothing from him in return. I understand his family: torn by war and abandonment. I hear him talk about boats and water like a sanctuary and I have to admit it’s not my favorite. I tell him about the cycle and the various prototypes that went wrong.

Farrah joins us. Then Ada. And more. People are talking in turns and actually with me. And it feels like being back in the barracks when I was eighteen and that first group of silver soldiers my brother’s age came in. Maven and I sat like this around a card table and played games with other officers and homesick boys. It stings to think about, but it’s also good.

Maybe Mare and Kilorn will need more time to get around to each other, but at least it’s not because of me.


	25. Thanksgiving pt. 1

# Thanksgiving

Red Queen addition… Enjoy your family, your friends, and good food when ever you can.

* * *

 

“Where are they?” Mom looks out the window to the street. She dries her hand on the towel hooked over the string of her apron.

“They’re never on time,” Dad comments, setting the table one place at a time.

 

Before his leg, that was my job. What a difference a year makes. Another difference: one more place setting but still one less than their should be. Tramy and Bree have missed this meal for years, but it’s the second time Shade won’t be here, he’ll never be here. Dad also lingers on Shade’s spot. Mom hoped Diana and Clara would fill it, but the weather has stopped the transports.

“Oh, I made something,” I break his haunted stare and dart up to my room. My eyes are still sore from stitching it last night. I am so tired, I almost forgot.

Dad helped me lift the candles and napkins in the middle of the table and spread the piece in the center. I like how the red and orange leaves mingle together on the looping vine.

“That’s beautiful,” Mom says, pausing to admire it. She’s back at the window when timers start to go off. “Where are they?”

As if on cue, Tramy bursts through the door, Bree shoving him to his knees on the floor.

“Cheat… You’re a cheat,” Bree pants.

“Late!” Mom yells from the kitchen.

“Bread!” Tramy shouts back, holding up a package.

“Forgiven,” Dad snags it and smells the paper. Mom is fast to snatch it into the kitchen.

“Tramy, potatoes. Bree salads. Gisa pickles.” She orders, then pauses, quieted and added, “Can someone get the platters.” Someone had been Shade since he bean-poled at thirteen.

“I gotcha, mom.” Tramy takes a moment to squeeze her shoulder and kiss her temple.

She gathers strength and focuses, “Where is Mare and Kilorn? We need butter and milk to finish this off.”

“Um, they ran into some people at the market.”

“What people?” She huffs because this is her favorite holiday. This is the day when the world has always stopped and allowed her to gather everyone close, everyone not at war. And this year is as whole as our family has been since my oldest brother hit eighteen.

“Mom!” Mare calls from the door.

“Finally! Gisa, get the butter.”

“Oh…” Dad’s two letter word drops in the silence, I turn the corner.

“It’s okay, right?” Mare purses her lips and waits for Dad’s forgiveness.

Kilorn shoves Cal forward, unlocking his mouth. “Sir, I… Um, I hope it’s okay?”

“Tramy, we need more plates. And three more chairs,” Dad yells, reaching for Shade’s plate in the cabinet. “Well, come in. Make yourselves at home.”

Mom follows Tramy out of the kitchen and stops short. I peak over her shoulder. Cal offers and then follows Tramy to get more chairs. Kilorn presents the smoked fish to mom. Cameron looks at the paintings on the wall and Diana cradles Clara under her coat.

“I thought the weather…” Mom starts and then dives forward to admire her grandchild.

“They opened up a few transports this morning,” Diana smiles, transferring Clara to her arms.

I assume mom’s position in the kitchen, ordering my siblings around. Cameron snacks on pickles almost as fast as Mare stakes them. And more timers go off.


	26. Thanksgiving pt. 2

Tramy jostles Cal into a center seat, upsetting Bree and pushing me to the other side. It’s clear, Cal and Mare will not be side by side but directly across from each other. Mare let’s Diana and Clara take the end. I am sitting next to Kilorn.

Cameron hovers, looking for a chair among arms and bodies. I point to the other half of my little bench. Her braids are long enough to touch my shoulder and tickle my neck. I try not to blush. Her leg is warm alongside mine. I can’t even respond when she says thanks.

Dad takes the head seat on my side, although Cameron is invading the corner. Mom takes Clara, tugging on her fisted hand and cooing. There’s no grace said at our table. Only soldiers in foxholes are foolish enough to think someone’s listening–or so dad says.

“I will say, I’m thankful for being together,” mom says more to Clara than the rest of us. It’s enough of a declaration of, “go” as we need.

Dad takes the first piece of chicken and passes the dish to Cameron. I already have a slice of bread. Cal looks at the mashed potatoes in Tramy’s hands like it’s gold. But Tramy passes across to Diana. Bree must count five lettuce leaves just to satisfy mom, because he hates salad, and then he sends it to dad. Mare watches the chicken and I know she wants the thigh so I take a drumstick. But Kilorn knows too and he takes it even though he likes breast meat. Mare takes a breast and passes the chicken, Kilorn switches their pieces to get her to smile. Diana is dishing for mom at the same time as herself so she’s a bottle neck on the potatoes. Food dishes are flying around in two directions. I nudge Mare and nod at Cal, who’s given up between our brothers. His plate is empty except for a bread slice.

“Ouch!” Tramy jumps. Mare’s kick is well placed and Mom looks up. Her evaluation is swift.

“Bree, Tramy! Shame on you,” her wooden spoon reaches Tramy, but not Bree. She gets Cal on the knuckles and gasps. “Not you! I’m sorry. Beat my brat down there will ya?”

Mare kicks at Bree but also gets Cal. I help her with a swift shot to my brother’s knee. I revel in the shock on his face. No one expects me to lash out, but it’s fun to pick on my brothers.

“It’s just a little fun… Can’t bring home a boyfriend and expect to get off free.” Tramy rubs his head.

Cal shimmers silver. I’ve never seen a silver blush before. “It’s okay, Mrs. Barrow.”

“We aren’t a bunch of ruffians, I swear.” Dad backhands Bree across the back of the head.

“He’ll get them back on the field,” Mare chimes. She passes potatoes across the table.

“Guess that means it’s me and Bree on the A team, who you want with you and Calvin on the B team?” Bree pushes the bread basket in front of Cal. Cal takes it and sets it in front of mom.

Not me… She’ll pick Kilorn. Then Tramy will have to pick me. But I’ll be last. I’m always last for teams.

“Cameron.”

Oh my God. They’ll pick Kilorn and I’ll be on Mare’s team. I’m never on Mare’s team, and with Cameron. My face is getting hot.

“Ouch, eh Warren? Fishboy is ours.”

“Bad move, Mare,” Kilorn mumbles around food.

And now, me.

“Diana,” Mare declares.

Shit.

“Dad,” Bree claims.

I’m better than Dad, aren’t I? But then I’m with Mare and Cameron.

“Oh no, I’m not ruining what I just got,” Dad refuses.

“It’s uneven though,” Tramy begs.

“Don’t be mean, take your sister,” Mom’s insistence doesn’t help my flush.

“What, uh… What are we playing?” Cal asks, his plate finally full.

“Bash the boyfriend,” Bree snickers, and another smack.

“Soccer,” Mare states.

“Oh, cool. I’m good at soccer,” Cal smiles. He’s put a sign on his back with that remark. Watching Kilorn trade glances with the other side, I don’t think Cal is gonna get off the ground enough to show his skill.


	27. Thanksgiving pt. 3

“This is not soccer,” Cal groans from his back in the mud puddle that marks the goal he just failed to protect. Tramy uses his stomach to push himself up. Cal gasps and flips onto hands and knees.

“Get up and start playing. You’re getting us killed. I thought you said you were good at soccer.” Mare yanks his arm and moves to the center where Farley faces off against Bree.

“There’s no tackling in soccer."He slips, adding, “Or mud.”

"Adapt, You’re embarrassing yourself,” Mare snaps.

Everyone is loving this game mostly because Cal, or Calvin (as he’s been dubbed by my brothers), does not. I line up on the line ready to get in the way, which is about my limits when it comes to sports. But in the mud, it’s not ineffective to force others to go around me.

I’m supposed to stay on Cameron, Kilorn on Mare and Tramy on Cal. Bree lines up against Farley, but there’s an odd fear in his eyes. She’s been more than a handful for him. Cameron has never played soccer before so there no rules for her to forget, which means she’s doing really, really well. But Cal keeps calling fouls, as if we care anything about fouls. The only one not getting blasted to the ground is Farley. It might be because Bree is big enough to loop an arm around her waist to stop her. But also, I think everyone knows there could be repercussions if some decorum wasn’t being upheld with the General.

Cameron jolts to the right and past me. I get an arm around her center, but slip to my knees. I drag down her body. Every inch of her is a new feel that I can’t quite memorize, but I want to.Her frame is slender but her thighs are solid. I don’t dig my hands in, but instead try to hold her with my muddy hands flat against her. I lose my grip, and drop face first into the mud. I scramble up and after her. She has the ball. Mare drops Kilorn but maintains her footing. He’s shouting about sparks. Cameron faces Bree who has Farley tugging at his shoulder. Cal is… Well… He’s pulling his punches with Tramy who’s getting to our goal to block Cameron’s advances. Cal stands off to the side, he looks like an idiot. Tramy blocks, the ball ricochets towards Cal and no one is there to stop him.

“Get Calvin!” I yell, pointing as the ball reaches him. It feels good to yell. And better to get a glare from him for using that name. He finally makes a move. Kilorn charges into him, shoulder low and to his center. Cal’s legs fly up and he lands hard on his back in the mid, again.

Mare ushers her team together, but she doesn’t bother to be quiet.

“Goddammit Calvin,” Cameron swears.

“Layoff, Cole,” he snarls. I don’t like that tone. I hope Kilorn drops him again.

“Stop it, Cal. At least Cameron got to the goal. You’re just lining yourself up to get plowed,” Mare barks.

“That’s what she said,” Bree shouts. We snicker. They glare.

“Okay, obviously, you can’t handle Tramy. How about you take Kilorn? And Cameron you stay on Gisa. That seems okay. I’ll deal with Tramy. Got it?” Cal looks affronted. I definitely don’t mind chasing Cameron.

“We gonna set up for a good plowing or you guys forfeiting?” Bree teases.

“Just wrap yourself around his legs and bring him down,” Mare snaps her fingers, sending Cal away. 

I’m not sure he’s ever been talked to like that, and least of all by Mare. But between him and I, I’m trying and he’s whining. There’s no whining in the Barrow house.

We split apart and I line up to face Cameron, but I can barely look up. I turn to check my team and Kilorn smirks, eyebrows raising suggestively. I go cold. He knows. How does he know? The ball goes past me and Cameron comes straight for me, jumping right. I jump with her, only there’s two other bodies wrestling in the space. Kilorn has Cal. Their feet slip on the mud as they push eachother’s shoulders. Cameron darts to my left and when I spin I’m under two sets of arms and a heavy mass of bodies: Cal and Kilorn.

“Let go, flame-head,” Kilorn calls.

Cameron is already way past me. My legs are stuck under Cal’s back. He wriggles to hold Kilorn and somehow he’s even more on top of me. I can be patient until he releases or… I throw an elbow, hard. It lands exactly where I wanted it to, on a royal nose square in a royal face. Kilorn is up in a second, stepping on him as he flies past. I scramble after, a hasty retreat towards deniability. But I’m exhilarated. That must be what my brothers feel every time they slam into each other: power. For that moment, I beat a silver prince, literally. I revel, running as fast as I can on the mud.

Kilorn is coming back, trailing Mare who’s always been fast. Farley slams her hands into his back and he’s barrelling head first into my knees. It’s instant karma. My knee bends the wrong way and I reel under his scramble. Farley jumps over us and uses Kilorn’s back like a spring board. She rolls in the mud and moans. No one leaps up this time.

“Uh, guys? I think we’re done,” Tramy surveys the bodies resting in heaps.

Mare looks me over before she starts to help me up. I didn’t expect her to come to me first. She’s silently concerned when I grab my knee. It hurts. I keep from crying until she looks at me, “Bree! Tramy! Gisa’s hurt, like hurt-hurt.”

My big Brothers swarm me with comforting words and sturdy hands. They try to let me walk, but it’s too much to bear weight. Bree scoops me up. Tramy holds his arm, steadying him on the mud. Farley must have just been winded because she’s up on her feet, crumbling dried mud off her skin. Kilorn trots to catch up and Cameron’s with him. Mare and Cal are missing.

“Gis, ya alright?” Kilorn asks.

“My knee…” I moan. Cameron puts a hand on my ankle and instantly my heart soars, lessening the pain.

“What happened to fire-hands?” Tramy asks.

“Nose looks broke. An improvement if you ask me,” Cameron smiles.

“Yeah, nice shot, Gisa,” Kilorn chimes. If I were a burner, this whole place would be up in smoke.

“And he was just getting the hang of Barrow style soccer,” Bree’s laugh against my ear is the cherry on top of my sundae.

Tramy circles back and Kilorn takes the role of ensuring Bree doesn’t tumble with me down the hill.

Behind me, Tramy is conciliatory, smoothing things over with complements Cal only partially deserves. “Man, Calvin, you really seemed to be getting the hang of it by the end. I know it gets a little rough out here, but you hung in there.”

“I’ve had worse, I’ve also done better,” Cal comments, stuffy sounding and muffled.

“I’m sure you’re in for some sympathy sex,” Tramy takes it one joke too far. The arch of sparks is audible, but no where near as loud as Tramy’s yelp.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“How did this happen?” Mom has twenty four years of experience tending wounds obtained on muddy fields. She’s unshakeable, until she’s watching silver blood dry with a slight purple hue. You’d think Cal was a national treasure the way she’s lined us up for interrogation.

Cal isn’t about to rat out his assailants, he only just earned a touch of respect. She hands Cal a rag to catch the blood streaming down his nose And turns her full attention to Bree, Tramy, Kilorn, and me. She looks at me first, but she knows the weak link.

“Bree?”

He turns his head and looks anywhere but her face.

“Bree Luther, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“It’s no—” Cal starts but withers. Mare hushes him sharply. She’s greedy for someone to be punished.

“Bree Luther Barrow, I cannot believe… at your age—”

“Gisa did it!” Bree couldn’t ever take the pressure. Tramy and Kilorn groan with me.

“What?” Mom whirls on me. Kilorn steps to the side and both he and Tramy move out of the way. Cowards. I stand alone and I also have the least practice when it comes to trouble. I’m never in trouble. 

“It was an accident,” I lie.

“Really, these things happen,” Cal tries again.

“Don’t make it worse,” Mare whispers

Mom won’t stop looking at me. I feel my face twitch in the middle of my cheek and I’m a goner. It’s all she needs to suss the truth.

“Gisa Verla Barrow, you should be ashamed of your self. He is a guest! And he’s very important to… To… Your sister.” No one wants to name the royal elephant.

I should be ashamed, but I’m not. I glare at Bree. He’s an adult there’s only so much she can do, but me? I have to sleep here. Bree grimaces his apology.

“To your room, now.”

Cal gets a rag and probably an ice pack. I get to hobble to my room on a swelling knee. And worse, Cameron saw me get in trouble. I am humiliated beyond tears and yet they’re coming. Shedding them before closing my door would only make it worse. So I run. For good measure, I slam the door shut.


	28. Bloodied Sands

Friday feats bring a little bit of the battlefield home for the civilians in the cities. I think the silvers would saunter up to the lush boxes to make bets and socialize regardless of the royal decree. It’s the reds that are forced to attend. The all looked the same to me the first couple months: beaten down, tired. But when the nerves that come with doing something new calmed down, I started to see there were really two types of reds. For the reds that have avoided conscription, they are amused. Some even seem excited to see silver blood on the sand. Reds that have been to battle, or those that are destined to go, well, you can see the contempt, the disgust, sometimes the memories.

Fighting one on one, silver against silver, is an amplified example of what happens on the daily in the Choke. But it’s nothing like the choke, reds neither fight as viciously nor last as long. Which makes it a cruel caricature poking fun at their weaknesses. 

Friday feats aren’t my idea of a good time. I didn’t grow up to mock the masses. Some of the fighters volunteer, feeding a carnal blood-thirst, but I stay the hell away from them. I have to be here. It’s King ordered punishment for coming up short on our harvests. One year of fights for me and my two brothers. One year of being torn up, burned, frozen close to death. One year of torture and training and entering the ring week after week in a different city to put on a show. And the show requires blood. It requires pain. It requires suffering. Fifty-two fights for one bad season of grain.

Before I go out, I search the stands. I look face to face and ask each of them to hold my eye. The beaten ones never look. The scared ones never hold. But somewhere in that crow there is a face that will stare back and refuse to blink. And that one person, that one red blooded person is the closest thing to freedom I’ll see for forty more weeks.


	29. I've got a few bottles of wine...

**Tumblr Prompt: "I've got a few bottles of wine and all the time in the world to talk to you."**

* * *

  
  
“Look you can’t. And that’s the end of it,” Farley let go of the girl’s arm just inside the doorway and left before another protest could be launched.  
  
She was one of the smallest, but not the youngest, mal-nutrition and being on the run had stolen the baby-fat she should have still had. Kilorn thought she looked six, but she could have been as old as nine.  
  
“How’d she catch you?” Enest, an older boy, about fifteen walked from the games table to console her.  
  
“I sneezed,” she let her head fall and her shoulders slumped.  
  
Kilorn chuckled, announcing himself when he thought his presence was completely known.  
  
“Shhh, back to cards,” Enest directed, glaring at Kilorn.  
  
“Ah, right. A grown up,” Kilorn chuckles again.  
  
“Yeah, one of *them*,” Enest sneered.  
  
“Me? One of them? Why you think I’m here with you and not out there loading the blackrun? I’m not one of *them*,” Kilorn pulled the cork from the bottle. “So you want on the voyage? Is this place so bad?” He took a swig.  
  
“You don’t know.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know?” Kilorn challenged.  
  
“You and that silver prince. You don’t know what it’s like…” Enest had pulled away from the other children, separated himself and hushed his voice. Kilorn could see the burning need. Enest was about to explode something raged so hot inside him.  
  
“I’ve got a few bottles of wine and all the time in the world. Why don’t you tell me exactly what I don’t know?” Kilorn held out the bottle.  
  
“For me?” Enest’s eyes grow big. His arms stayed pinned stiff to his side.  
  
“What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? You gonna get crazy and rob a bank? Come on, let’s go have a chat by the fire.”  
  
“By the fire? Me, with you, by the fire?”  
  
“Come on, Enest, this wine doesn’t drink it’s self.” Kilorn headed through the door. Enest looked back at the kids at the game table. The children stared back, waiting for him to claim his seat. But instead, he followed.


	30. Rainbow Brigade (RQSS, short)

Written for mareshmallow/chelsthebookworm for Red Queen Secret Santa 2017.

* * *

 

Whether due to surprise or etiquette, Cal shot up from his relaxed slump when more people joined him and his silver commanders in the room. Farley blocked his view for a moment and he relaxed recognizing other members of Command. His head snapped between Farley and a man on his right with only a small hint of confusion and a whole heap of annoyance. Then, intending to land back on Farley, he instead looked directly at Mare and morphed like an ember being extinguished in a muddy puddle. He visibly struggled to recover his composure. Cal turned to consult with the squat man with graying temples. Neither of them expected command to be there and Cal hadn’t anticipated seeing Mare so soon.

Command thought Mare could have input on the Guard’s strategy and, disrupt the power balance at least a little. Farley stayed true to Command’s decision and convinced Mare to attend a Command meeting, forgetting to mention that they were crashing a Silver alliance meeting.

It’s only because he couldn’t control his eyes–always finding Mare even during the introductions, that he noticed the sag in her posture. She held her arm to her gingerly, and defensively. She’d left the battlefield hurt, but was healed before they entered the hall with House Samos. Her injuries made him shift in his seat. Twenty-four hours had passed and she was already hurt.

When she slid her hand off the table and under she emitted a soft groan. Cal shifted forward and into the table between them, a physical reminder of his divisive choice. The move stopped the droning speech of the squat man on his arm.

When his adviser put a hand on Cal’s forearm, a sign of caution and meant to ground him, Cal exploded. Flames flickered and heat exuded throughout the tiny room. The man retracted, moving an arms length away. Cal blanched hot, eyes lit up. Suspicion crease the corners of his eyes. His chin jutted up in defiance.

“Who’s games are you playing, Mare?” His echoing snarl snapped in half when the heavy door slammed shut behind him. Clearly, the prince thought Mare’s presence —wounded as she was— a play on his emotions. A play that obviously worked.

Farley turned to Mare, eyes set on rectifying the situation, at least on explaining it; but Mare didn’t have time or patience or enough calm left to give her the chance.

“What game are we playing? I’m not playing anyone’s game.” Mare shook. Shaking was safer than pulling the lights down around the tables, but the lights still flickered.

* * *

 

“Get me out of here,” Mare demanded.

“I didn’t think… None of us thought…” Farley started but words couldn’t chip away the anger. She hedged with facts instead. “We’re regrouping at the base, first transport at 1540. I’ll put your name on the list.”

Mare picked up an already packed duffel and marched to the field of transports to wait.

* * *

 

Kilorn and Bree leaned against the hanger and waited for the transport door to spread wide. New bloods spilled out, silent and tired. Most were injured and in need of Sarah’s attention, Mare included. She looked more exhausted than any of them.

“Hey, Mare!” Bree called her attention and Kilorn wished he was the one to catch her first hug as she crumpled in Bree’s arms. “You’re hurt?”

“I’m okay. A New Blood healed most of it on the plane,” Mare assured him.

“Mare, come on. Your mom’s waiting.” Kilorn tugged them into motion. She sucked up snot and dried her eyes, squeezing his arm in response. She fell into her family and sunk into bed next to Gisa, sleeping more than a day in one stretch.

A stroke on her shoulder brought her around. Her dream told her it was Cal, her mind reminded her it was not. And her eyes hardened to see Farley, in plain clothes, looking with pity.

“Why do you want?” Mare hissed, her throat dry and her chest sore.

“Are you ill?”

“What do you want?” Mare repeated, then pushed up and out of bed. She fumbled fingers through her hair and ignored the ache in her body. She couldn’t ignore the pulse of pain from her bladder.

“To see if you’re okay. You’ve been out for a while.”

“I’m fine.” She moved to side step Farley, but she was immediately blocked.

“Sleeping so much isn’t a sign of being okay.”

Mare bobbed left but Farley countered. “Move or I’ll piss right on you.”

Farley twisted to the side and let Mare pass, but stayed outside the door.

“If your sick, I’ll send for Sarah,” Farley murmured.

“A little privacy?”

“Mare—” when the lights flickered, Farley backed down the stairs.

The shower revived her although she didn’t know to what ends. But Farley surely had a purpose specially chosen for her: a performance to give, a speech to read, a lie to tell. She combed her hair and fixed it back into a braid. The gray ends made up nearly half of her length. Running the tail through her fingers she considered her options. If she went down stairs, she’d be obligated to listen. If she stomped out the front door, Farley would follow. She examined the different hues of gray as she turned her hair in the sunlight, then approached the window.

A window on the second floor was directly below her bedroom. It had a brick facade that jutted out an extra inch framing it. The little ledge was enough for her toes. And a small leap away was the sturdy branch of a oak. Escaping became second nature months ago. She lowered herself carefully, caught the ledge, and leapt backwards, twisting and grabbing the branch. Her breath caught as the tight skin forming into a scar on her arm pulled in an uncomfortable stretch. She moved hand over hand to the trunk and slid down to the grass. Better safe than sorry, she ran the length of the street and only slowed when she saw the swirl of storm clouds over the practice field.

She could sense Ella’s power halfway across the base. She exuded an energy that coursed through the air begging Mare to come play. Tyton must have felt similar, as he sucked blue waves of light down into his skin and bounced white, crackling shocks between his fingers. He sent his bolts to a mannequin mock-up. It sizzled and danced on the sand. Mare gaped as the crown toppled off it’s head and onto the ground. She was certain it wasn’t Maven drawing their ire.

Ella’s clouds dissipated and cleared, Tyton stopped crackling his fingertips and both looked sheepishly at their toes. Mare gathered the static from the air and shot bright purple at the tin-foil hat and watched it blacken and fuse together with coils of lightning-glass.

“Sorry, Mare. Rough situation,” Rafe sighed, his hand in a sling.

“You were hurt?” She countered, placing the focus back on him.

“Not as much as it looks. I’m low priority for the healers, scheduled for tomorrow.”

She nodded and turned back to the field.

“You got any more crowns?” Mare asked.

“A few,” Ella smiled, pointing at a small pile of shrapnel fashioned into metal rings. Ella picked one made from barbed wire coils, tossed it a few times between her palms then and then launched it like a frisbee out and up. Mare painted the darkening sky purple.

* * *

 

“How long are you going to avoid me?” Farley asks, coming behind Mare on her trek from her parents home to the barracks.

Training with the other Electricons was more than a distraction to Mare. And, in her estimation, none of Farley’s business. Lacking actual orders to fight or even a direction for what the Guard would pursue next, everyone had turned to routines and training to pass the time. Mare didn’t even slow her pace, no intention to respond. Petty as it was to hold her encounter with Cal against Farley, Mare couldn’t look at her without sparks threatening to dance on her skin.

“You’re a soldier and you are one step away from being insubordinate. I know you don’t want to face the facts–”

“What else am I supposed to do? I’m training just like every other soldier.”

“You’re not just another soldier. We need you to show up to meetings.”

“Why? I’m not good at scheming like you. Every time I try, I fuck up. Remember? Misjudging Cal. Misjudging Maven. Misjudging John. Misjudging Cal, again. Lets stop pretending I’m at all helpful in making decisions. I am a new blood, a foot soldier. All I’m good at is fighting. So go figure out who or what or where you want me to kill next, because I’m done shitting all over this with my bad ideas.”

Farley’s mouth opened and closed two times before she nodded and let Mare continue to her new bunk.

* * *

 

“You couldn’t tell me this morning that you were moving?” Kilorn slumped onto the foot of her bed. He wiggled his toes in his boots and stretched his back as if he’d walked a dozen miles. Mare peaked out from under the flesh of her upper arm. She’d been dozing after a hard training session, blocking out the sun and the situation at the same time with the familiar feel of her sweaty skin.

“You ever dye anything before?” Mare asked.

“I walked all the way to your folks place only to be told you decided to rough it out here with us.”

“Dying? Have you ever dyed anything?” she stated with crisper enunciation.

“Not a ‘sorry’ or a ‘oops’?”

Mare sat up on her elbows and pushed his side with her barefoot while saying, “Kilorn, I’m sorry you had to walk an extra half mile and eat diner with my family.”

“How’d you know?” Kilorn sat back, eyebrow raised.

“There’s crumbs on your shirt.” She pointed with her toe. He slapped her foot back down to the bed.

“Tramy sent rolls. I might have ate one.” Kilorn produced two bread rolls from behind his back. Mare snatched them, greedy. “What do you wanna dye?”

“My hair.”

“Ask Gisa.”

“I’m asking you,” she said, mouth full of dry crust.

“What color?” he relented.

“Purple.”

Kilorn considered her thoughtfully, breaking into a small grin. “Conformist.”

“Shut up.” She snapped to her feet, pulled on her boots, and pushed him in the direction of the toilets.

* * *

 

“I thought you weren’t gonna dye your hair,” Rafe smirked.

“I’ve made a dozen bad decisions, why not this one?” she countered, passing them on her way up the hill.

Half way into practice, a message runner arrived in a transport. Ella took the note, Mare was focused on precision strikes, sweating and cursing as she hit and missed.

“Hold up, Barrow. We got orders.” Ella passed the note to her.

“Lakelands? We’re going to the Lakelands?” Mare racked her brain for any reason why the Scarlet Guard would cross the silver lines and attack in enemy territories, especially without an agreement with Cal. She regretted skipping meetings.

“So?” Rafe looked at her expectantly.

She struggled again, then swallowed hard. Under her own request, she knew no more details than any other soldier.

“Soldiers don’t make choices, they follow orders. Let’s get ready.” She lead them back to the barracks. Her insistence that she didn’t know anything additional didn’t dissuade their pointed questions.

Mare gave her mother a hug like it could be the last and then followed it with her father and brothers. Gisa she squeezed extra tight.

Kilorn pulled a hand out of his pocket so he could punch her shoulder lightly. “You come back, okay?” He nodded at her.

“Stay out of trouble,” she hit his shoulder back a tad harder than he had.

She turned and took in a deep breath when she faced the transport. Kilorn’s hand on her shoulder spun her around and he wrapped her up.

“Stay alive. Don’t forget you got us here. Okay? He means nothing in all of this.”

“Who?” She responded dryly.

“Don’t be stupid just because you’re hurting. Just come home, okay?” He held her long enough to force a nod.

The Electricons waited for her to board first then followed up the ramp.

* * *

 

Three days of walking into skirmishes and they’d finally stumbled onto a walled city built on the cliffs of the coast. Each company had a rough split of the new blood powers, excepting those that needed water from the ocean or who could turn the iron gates from defensive structures to offensive weapons. Mare called energy from a well so deep inside of her she scarcely believed she had more left to draw. Her energy was fading, she was fading. Never one to pray, she found herself searching for fireballs, heat, warmth, a sign that he’d come and help her, save her. They’d always saved each other. Down on one knee, she saw her purple bend down, snatched and turned yellow. She pushed through the Telky woman battering her with stones and bodies. She watching a blond-headed body streak past, sparks flying from fingertips, but no armor. She raced after him, eager to protect him, to draw energy from him, to get a respite and recover. Another Electricon, an undiscovered Lakelander New Blood could be a powerful ally in recruitment.

* * *

The base gathered around the transports as one after another arrived. The first ship carried the wounded. And the second contained lower priority cases. Each transport that landed after produced waves of returning soldiers, prisoners, and new allies. Every plane was greeted as if they all carried victors and not ravaged rebels. Most of the coastal cities had been freed from silver control. But each was released back to Lakelanders as the small army moved from one to the next. In succession, every town but one was reclaimed by silver lords. But a heavy price had been paid. In the silver-lining, new bloods roused from the Lakeland countryside arrived for training, equipment, and supplies. All were ready to be sent back to join the fight as members of the Scarlet Guard.

Ruth reached Mare first, cupping her swollen face gently. The bruising on her left side was bad enough that she was barely recognizable, and Mare suspected she had a fractured orbital socket.

“I’m okay, mom,” she assured, pushing her mother’s hands away from her injuries.

The rest of her Electricons emerged from the transport behind her. The blond-headed boy starstruck by the big hangers and the crowd straggled for a moment and hopped two big strides to catch up with Tyton and Rafe. Ella limped a little behind the boys.

Kilorn touched her shoulders and chuckled in a nervous release of anxiety. “You’re two colors short of officially being the Rainbow Brigade,” he teased.

“Oh that one? Yeah, picked him up at the first city. He’s been a pretty good addition. He may not need any hair dye to fit in. But I could use a touch up.” She smiled and allowed her arms to wrap around his middle. He rocked her inside of a solid hug, their soles pushing from side to side.

“Good job staying alive.” Kilorn pressed his face to the top of her head.

“Who else is gonna keep you in line?” Mare sighed into him, heavy in his arms. For the first time since they left weeks prior, she let herself relax.


	31. Brothers Calore

The hallway was constructed to disguise the doors as part of the decor. The molding looped up and around with splashes of color to highlight some contours and hide others. One picturesque, symmetrically-staged entry way passed on his left then his right and another and another down the wide hallway. He ticked off each one under his breath:. “Mom’s. Dad’s. Sitting room. Music room. Mine.” 

Six months and also a lifetime separated himself from his room. When he left it, he was a boy. He had been soft and scared but also excited and ready to prove himself, to finally make his father proud. Behind the door was his old self, his old life, his old things. Things that belonged to his childhood, not to him, not anymore.

Music started down the hall. Not from the music room but from Cal’s. Of course, his brother’s door was cracked open. A lamp clicked on and the light poured out across the carpet. Maven’s mother would have rolled her eyes at the break in the pattern of the hallway. He, on the other hand, needed to bath himself in that light, in the music, in something that wasn’t the contrast between himself and the boy he had been.

Cal rocked from foot sole to foot sole in soft cotton pants and no shirt. His hair was shaggy, in need of a cut to keep with the standards of the military. But for the palace, for a prince, it suited him; especially in the candid freedom on display is he relaxed after his day. From the bruises on his back, Maven knew Cal continued to train hard. But from the smile creeping over Cal’s face, he also knew his brother was never so happy as when he picked up his pencil set and leaned over his books.

“What machinations have your attention tonight?” Maven’s voice cut harshly across the threshold and Cal shot to his feet.

“Mavey! You’re home? When did you get home?” Cal charged him. 

Maven resisted his instinct to step back, only leaning a little away. Cal’s hand closed on his upper arm first and then his muscular build jerked him forward. Up next to his brother, pressed face to collarbone, Maven realized how he’d grown more than Cal, for once. He was catching up by maybe an inch. But the glee at his gains paled to the comfort of the embrace. At the same time, a different embrace complete with different smells, fabrics, intensity flashed through him. And then he couldn’t stand the touch of his brother.

“Yeah, yeah. Let me breath,” Maven shrugged him off, and Cal let him step an arm’s length away.

“No one announced you. No one said–”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to parade around just because I came back.”

“Well, how was it? You survived! Did you get to command by the end?”

“Yeah, sort of. I guess,” his voice fell to something soft. Survived, yes. How was it? What a horrible question to say with a smile.

Cal’s smile dropped and Maven knew he’d come to the right door. He stopped fighting the shake in his body and let it rake up his spine at the same time that his eyes welled.

“Come on, take a seat,” Cal ushered him in and shut the door. 

Maven took big breaths and metered his sobs. His brother rubbed his back and pursed his lips. Instead of judgement or pity or condemnation, Cal accepted what was happening and allowed Maven the space to exist.

Cal separated himself to visit the tea station by his door. He returned with a cup and put it in front of Maven. Maven sniffed it, and jerked back. There was nothing herbal in the cup. The fumes burnt his eyes.

“What is this?”

“Rocket fuel,” Cal said, a smirk across his face.

Maven let a smile clip up the left side of his face and took a sip. He gagged and coughed.

“So… you’ve been to the choke.”

“Yeah, it was horrible, Cal. Horrible.”

Cal flinched from Maven’s desperate expression and then nodded.

“How do you? How can you come back from that?”

Cal pulled his lips between his teeth and let his tongue play across his bottom lip. “You can’t expect to come back all at once. I take a couple weeks to sort of acclimate. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not usually all that social when I first get back.”

“You stayed in the barracks a while last time. Did that help?”

“Yeah. It did. The reds don’t really like it–silver officers loitering around–but it’s easier to transition when it all sort of moves on the same schedule. And then I limit what I do for a bit, focus on training. It’s different for everyone.”

“Different?”

“Yeah, everyone goes through different things. Even the same thing effects people differently. Somethings you never get over.”

“The water?”

“Yeah, the water.” Cal rubbed his upper arms with his hands as if suddenly chilled.

Maven took another sip and coughed less. Cal tapped his thumbs together, leaning his elbows on his knees. 

“Can I ask you something?” Maven asked, setting the cup down on the table.

“Yeah, of course.” Cal shrugged but didn’t look up.

“Have you ever lost a friend?”

“Soldiers die. It’s sad, but that’s what war is.”

“No, not soldiers. A _friend_?” Maven’s face melted and the sobs flooded back in.

“Mavey…” Cal collected Maven’s collapsing frame in his arms and rubbed his back again.

Maven mouthed words but his sobs prevented Cal from catching much of the story. The ending was clear enough, “He burned, Cal! He burned!”

“I’m sorry, Maven. I’m so sorry,” Cal took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. He finished the cup of fumes.


	32. For what might come next

**For what might come next**

Mare couldn’t light up the world with one touch, but sometimes she tried. When she did, she couldn’t avoid the exhaustion it brought. Her fellow electricons had discipline to spare. They quit when they achieved their goals. They were exacting and precise. She just never quite managed to rein it in.

Mare was a blundering tornado of destruction. Her lightning shot out across the sky and along the ground. She shimmered in purple flashes and bright explosions while others ducked and covered. In her frustration, it only got worse. Pulses screamed out of her hands and off her arms. Archs threatened to leap from her ears and the tip of her nose. It was hard to find an off switch.

Rafe suggested moderation might come with time. Tyton sniped that they should just say Cal’s name and drop her in the center of the Lakelands, the war would be over. Ella thrust up a hand, sending warning bolts Tyton’s way and then assured Mare that as she learned she’d figure out her limits. Maybe Rafe and Ella were right, or maybe she wasn’t destined to be tempered. She might flash and bang through a few short years and at the end find herself drained like a battery, used up by war with nothing left for herself.

She thought about losing her powers a lot. She remembered the silent stone and the strangling weight that loomed over her every waking moment. Or sometimes, she thought about bombs falling, ice crushing, plants strangling, and fire burning, picking which she’d prefer to take her. Even in still, lonely moments sitting on the field waiting her turn, her mind could turn a bird’s shadow into a stone from a wall exploding. She would jump and scramble only to see nothing more solid than her friends in close proximity.

Closing her eyes was hardly safer. In rest, she wondered about the reconstructed flag outside her mother’s window. Would another star be dashed black? Would she crush them into mourning?

If she kept moving, she could keep some of the worst thoughts at bay. Between her few responsibilities, she meandered up and down Corvium’s streets until her feet ached and her body might be weary enough to drift into a dreamless sleep. She slipped into the small row house they’d claimed as their own.

Farley had a room upstairs, empty now that she was back on base visiting Clara and planning their next steps. Mare shared the larger upstairs room with Ada, though her roommate had been gone, too. Downstairs, Kilorn, Bree, and Tramy had claimed a room that used to be a living room as their own. And Cameron shared a smaller room the old dining room with her brother.

Mare’s brothers didn’t fight on the front lines anymore. They and other reds, Kilorn and Morrey included, trained on long range artillery. Still dangerous, but they’d be away from the hand-to-hand she had to face, away from the silvers. Their training kept them on a schedule much fuller than her own, and she could trust the house to be empty enough for a midday nap.

Mare stopped short passing the kitchen on the way to the stairwell. She was not alone.

“Hey,” she called.

Kilorn jumped and scrambled and flipped pages over in front of him. She smirked, surprised he was still embarrassed about studying. She didn’t know how much progress he’d made he was so bashful about it. Even in a house of people who knew he was illiterate, he was too prideful to expose himself to her. He sat hands pressed flat against the table, back straight, and stairing straight forward–as if he thought she’d just move on.

“Are you okay?” she smirked, almost laughed at the stiffness.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He crossed his arms and nodded. His rigid posture screamed the opposite. The heavy swallow hinted at more than just his studies being the source.

“You sure you’re okay?” The temptation to needle him, tease him rose up.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind is all. I’m okay. I’m fine. Thanks.”

 _Thanks? Thanks?_ There were no _thanks_ in their relationship. She looked harder, let her intuition feel him out, and while she couldn’t point at exactly what it was there was something there. Something deeply distressing to him, almost comical to her, but also untouchably raw.

She pulled her smirk down into a sincere neutrality. “Want to talk about it?”

Mare took the steps to the table and glanced at the shuffled stack of papers, the pencils on the table. Kilorn stacked them neater, less to show.

“I don’t want to bother you with it. Just, you know… stuff.”

“I wouldn’t be bothered, Kilorn. I mean, if you want to talk to someone about something… I’m here.”

His face went red, all the way up to his ears.

“Come on, what’s going on? Maybe I can help?” School never ranked very high on Mare’s list of activities, but she’d managed to pull out the important stuff. And if Kilorn needed help reading something, she could at least do that.

“It’s… it’s dumb.” He curved in on himself in a way that rarely happened anymore but reminded her of being back home, before.

“I’ve been handling your _dumb_ for years. Lay it on me.” Mare reached out and pulled at the paper. “I was never much for homework, but you know I can try to help.”

“It’s not… it’s… ugh, fine. I was writing a letter. But I keep getting mixed up. I can’t remember how to spell things and even if I think it’s right, it doesn’t look right. And then I can’t get the words down fast enough and so I skipped a few on accident. So then I started over. But… it… it doesn’t matter. It’s dumb.”

Between the lines she heard it: _I’m dumb._ Kilorn was silly. He was emotional and impulsive. He was shortsighted and, much like her, rarely did anything that wasn’t with his full conviction.

“What kind of letter? Let me help. I can write the words and you can copy them, one by one so you don’t get the letters mixed up,” she offered.

“It’s… it’s personal.” He paused, still red and hot. He swallowed again, then admitted, “This is weird.”

“Weird because?”

Kilorn hunched further down under her inspection. Mare’s stomach flipped in realization. Kilorn needed to write a personal letter, one that he was embarrassed to tell her about.

“Because it’s for a girl?” He shrugged, noncommitallly. “Okay. And because… I get it. It’s weird for you. So, I guess you can wait for Ada. That’s cool.”

“No, I can’t wait for Ada. I… need _someone_ else.” He said slowly, looking out of the corner of his eye for the briefest of seconds.

Mare’s brow furrowed. “You need _someone_ else?”

“ _Anyone else.”_ he cleared his throat and his hands flexed into fists.

”Oh.”

“See, I told you it was stupid. She’ll take one look at it and she’ll…” Kilorn trailed off before grabbing the papers and looking at the trash can.

“No! You should.”

“I should?” He checked, looking square at Mare.

“Yeah, I think it could go well for you.” Mare had no idea if it would or not, but she hadn’t been practicing her lying all her life to fail her friend now. So she committed, “And, maybe it’s awkward and strange fro me to help, but I am here, ready to help. So, what do you want to say?”

Mare took the paper from him and looked at the backwards a’s and the misspelled words and lines of trying that dissolved into repeatedly writing the same word over and over and over like he couldn’t decide how to make a ‘b’.

“I just want to thank her for helping me. Maybe tell her that I like spending time with her. But if I can’t do it myself, then it’s sort of proving she’s wasted her time. And she’s got a whole lot better things to do.”

“Oh, shut up.” Mare dismissed him with a pointed glance. “So you need help. I need help all the time. You don’t see me running away from Ella when she’s hell bent on making me make storms. I line up and let her torture me for hours. And I get better. But I’m not good at making storm lightning. I’ll probably never be good enough to use it in a fight, but I keep trying, hoping that maybe I’ll get another tool out of it. And Ada knows you try.”

Kilorn rolled his eyes. Storm-lightning and word-making didn’t exactly line up in his head.

“Come on, Warren. Let’s write a letter.” Mare gripped the pencil and kicked his leg. He didn’t move, his mood pretty sunk. She kicked him again. “Hey, _fish-boy_ , you wanna tell her thank you or not?”

“Fine. But… don’t make fun of me, okay?”

“Never-ever.”

“And don’t tell your brothers. They won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“Lips sealed. So what exactly do you want to say?”

He stopped breathing for a moment, wet his lips, hesitated, and cleared his throat. He was in deep, maybe deeper than ever before. Mare prepared to hear words she knew she once expected him to say to her. She sat at the table facing the death of something she didn’t know she’d miss; and yet, excited to witness the birth of something else, maybe–if they could get it down on paper.

* * *

**If you like it, leave me a review. If you want more of it, send me a prompt (tumblr in profile).  
**


	33. Pulled Under

**Tumblr Prompt:** Idk how but Mare, Maven and Cal somehow meet each other when they're like 6. Maybe the Calore boys were being naughty and snuck out? Or it's a Silver celebration and Shade drags Mare and Kilorn out when they were young for fun and bump into the two brothers who were sneaking away?

**Response:**

“Chicken!”

“Am not,” Mare leaned back on her hands to keep from slipping down the muddy embankment.

“Bock, bock, ba-cock!” Kilorn flapped his arms and dipped to splash water onto her feet.

“It’s moving really fast.” She gaged the spring current.

“ _It’s moving really fast_ ,” he mocked her tone.

“Shut it, Warren!” Mare sprang off her vantage point, her fist coming down on her friend’s back. They both went into the water and rolled. Sputtering at the shock of the temperature, she stood, shivering, her arms at her chest.

Kilorn laughed sitting up. The water rushed under his butt and lifted him up off the bottom of the shallows. His toes curled at the cold, but the river was more his home than the closet-sized room his master had afforded him with his apprenticeship.

“Is that ice?” Mare’s teeth chattered.

Kilorn twisted, looking for a residual block to be flowing past, only to get a wall of water splashed in his ear. He took out her legs and they both tumbled over twisted legs. 

“Say it!” Mare commanded, Kilorn in a choke hold. She shoved his face in the water for a moment and drew him out. “Say it!” 

Kilorn struggled to gasp enough breath, his arms pinned but his resolve not yet broken. He wiggled, hoping the slick mud would let him wriggle free. She dunked him again, holding him a little longer. He struggled harder.

“Say it!” she commanded, letting his head lift up.

“Silvers!” he coughed, she dunked him.

“No, say _it_!”

He coughed, “Silvers, on the shore!” He coughed out. Mare froze.

Two black-haired boys looked from the road down the washed out bank to the red children covered in mud.

“Are you killing him?” The small one looked horrified.

“No.” Mare let Kilorn drop into the water. He went under and twisted in the current. 

She scrambled to catch him, her hand circling his ankle. Kilorn kicked at her, trying to shake her grip, launching himself into the deeper water.

She watched his body tumble under the muddy water. Her hands sat on her hips and an easy smile settled on her face along with a shrug. If he wanted to go deeper, who was she to stop him? She spared a glance at the boys on the bank to check, they were watching, too. The small one, maybe her age or a little younger, pointed a finger out at the river in a lazy, subconscious movement. Before she looked back, the older boy started moving, fast. He took two steps down the bank, surprising her with his agility on the mud and stones. He pushed past her into the water.

Kilorn kicked and threw one arm over the other, his head came up for a gulp of water-mixed air, then he failed against the current. She blanched. Kilorn slipped out of view.

The boy’s clean white shirt sucked up the brown river as he submerged himself in pursuit. He grabbed Kilorn’s long leg. Mare could see his ankle and the edge of his pant leg and little else. The black-haired boy held onto a branch, white knuckled and strained face. He pulled Kilorn in towards the shore throwing his body back against the force of the water. Mare saw Kilorn’s hand grabbing at air, his head and torso still under. And then the rescuer slipped, lost Kilorn’s leg, and with his legs washed out from under him, they both rushed down the river.

“Cal!” The small one screamed and took off down the fishing path that ran along the river. 

Mare knew better. The path dead-ended at the bridge. She scrambled up to the road and raced past cards and a crowd of merchants next to a broken wagon. She launched herself onto the stone wall that ran from the bridge into the heart of the Stilts. Her feet sailed over the top, past the crowd, and gave her a vantage point overlooking the river. The white-brown shirt marked the boys progress. Only he wasn’t moving.

She pushed harder, sucked air, and raced faster than ever before. At her pace, she’d have outrun every silver in the city. She waited for them at the fork. The boys washed to the right, away from the main river that flowed on through the countryside and into the wide reservoir of the mill-works. On one side, the wheel turned pulverizing wood chips and powering the saws of the saw mill. On the other, the power station loomed high above the dam, the turbines sucked from below the waterline and jettisoned brackish, mud-laced spouts out at the bottom of the dam. With the rains, water also gushed over the top landing with a plume of mist on boulders thirty feet below.

Kilorn had his arm around the black-haired boy, around Cal, who didn’t move. In the basin, Kilorn made slow progress in calmer waters towards the shore, but his stricken face reflected her horror. The undertow from the turbines could snatch them faster than the upstream current and neither would survive the chop of the blades. They’d be nothing more than a red slick churning on the rocks.

Screams went up from the Mill. Workers waved their arms at the power station, but the silver in the tower gave them a shrug, like there was nothing he could do. More like two kids weren’t worth the trouble of shutting down the power station. Millwrights disappeared from windows and reappeared below, makeshift ropes in hand and with planks of wood. Kilorn reversed his direction and began pulling both of them towards the mill.

“Cal!” The small one had caught up, standing on the wall next to her, fingernails between his teeth. “Are they gonna get them? They have to get them. What if they go over?”

“Over is bad. Under is worse.”

Both heaved shallow breaths, helpless to do anything else on the top of the wall. The millwrights lashed the boards together and sent a small apprentice out on the end, floating him into the current towards Kilorn who’s stroke was fading in exhaustion. One hand gripped the other. Mare let out her breath and launched herself past the boy and towards the bridge. He followed.

Kilorn sputtered and panted, disoriented and exhausted on the grass next to the mill. The workers pounded on the back of the black haired boy, forcing lungfuls of water out of him until he took over coughing. Kilorn looked at his hand and down at his chest where a silver streak ran through the water on his arm.

“His blood. He’s a silver!” Mare exclaimed whirling on the other boy.

“Cal!” They couldn’t keep the smaller boy away any longer and he rushed through arms and legs.

A crowd had gathered, including some silver patrolmen. They glared from Kilorn and Mare to the silver boys and lurched in to detain them. Cal struggled onto the heels of his hands and saw the soldiers extracting clubs and cuffs as they towered over Kilorn and Mare.

“Did you push him?” One declared, raising the club as Mare tugged Kilorn backwards. The soldiers advanced.

“Stop!” Cal shouted.

Mare put her body over Kilorn’s head and took the bat to the back. She reeled and gasped, but they both kept scrambling. Another blow came down on the meat of her thigh.

“Stop! In the name of the King! In the name of my father, stop!” Cal roared, a flicker of flame catching the sleeve of the soldier’s uniform.

The soldier whirled to put himself out, and his partner pounced on the stunned red kids pinning them down.

“In the name of King Tiberius, stop what you do.” Cal shrieked again. 

The guard evaluated him, expression sliding from rage to horrified recognition. He fell to his knees in a bow.

“My lord, my prince! Don’t be troubled. We’ll manage your attackers.”

“They aren’t my attackers.” Cal pushed himself up to his feet with Maven’s help. “That boy saved my life. Release them.”

The soldier paused, looking up. The one smashing the kids to the ground scrambled off of them. Mare leaned on Kilorn, the bruise already forming on her side. Kilorn didn’t wait for another word, he spun her and pulled and they ran through the gathering crowd and across the bridge into the alleys of the Stilts and all the way back home.


	34. War Games

**Tumblr Prompt:** Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - RQ

**Response:**

Silver soldiers crowded into the transport overlapping haphazardly and almost toppling out. They were adjusted, rotated, squished five more than capacity. They rolled along under the grey cloth that stretched from one end to the other. The transports jumped the caverns and dipped on soft pillows. The surface skidded and bumped from side to side, but all the soldiers stayed put.

A single length away, their target sat seemingly unaware. Keen eyes turned and focused on the approaching vehicle, the mess of weapons and abilities. The entire enemy tensed and curled under, ready to launch a counter attack. The silvers leapt from the transport and took their position, one by one. Shoulder to shoulder they stood and faced down their enemy. 

The Nymph launched the first attack, a wave of water spewing out, coating the surface between them and the enemy. The enemy shrunk back, but did not flee. 

The telky took his turn, blocks flipping end-over-end and crashing with violent strikes that echoed. The silver commands flinched at their own sound and the enemy hunched, seemingly content to fall under siege.

The leadership regrouped and brought forth the strongarm. The woman stomped one step at a time, crossed a crevasse and managed to maintain her footing across the fluffy bog before she curled her fingers under the very foundations of the enemy’s perch. Straining, the surface wobbled then scratched, then hovered up. Everything shook with the force of her legs on the ground and the rise of the entire world. 

The enemy jumped to the lava and scurried across the expanse of the Hall of the Sun, yipping it’s protests towards it’s master. Victory carried only a sighing resignation. A siege next time, the leadership declared, something to fill the time.

Cal called together his soldiers, loading one by one into the transport and surveyed for the next threat. All around him, empty chairs loomed like long stretches of battlefields. Without an enemy, they’d have to return to the buffet table and practice their drills. He pushed them along the cushions and made crashing noises as they skidded from one seat to the next.


	35. NSFW, BDSM Marecal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning... what follows is a depiction of BDSM - Fem-domination. If you're not interested in the sexually explicit or kinky vibe. Skip it.

“Were you at the mess between one and two?” Mare sunk into the bed, her fingertips walked up his spine. He murmured. Goose bumps prickled. “What was that? So I can hear you.” Her nails sliced along his shoulder blade, soft indentations just shy of making welts.

“Yes, ma'am,” Cal enunciated and bit his lip.

“Weren’t you scheduled to be at the General’s briefing?” Cal’s breathing increased, his flesh warmed. The white walls glowed soft purple. He pulled on the ropes that secured his wrists. She let her fingers walk.

“Ah! Oh!” He shuddered.

“Use your words, Cal.” She let sparks connect and pull. His trapezius contracted. He gargled sounds. She let her palm sooth his skin and asked again. “Weren’t you scheduled for the General’s briefing?”

This time, no hesitation, “Yes, ma'am.” He took a deep breath and let it out, relaxing arms that had been pulling hard without his realizing it.

Mare mounted his body, sitting astride his thighs and gave him the break he needed. She dripped oil onto his skin and pushed into his flesh. He moaned. He squirmed. She waited until she saw his hands testing his restraints.

“Skipping meetings?” Shock, zap, surge. She punctuated her massage with small currents. He whimpered. “And what’s this week’s punishment for skipping meetings?”

“Mark me,” he huffed.

She stopped, sat up. She killed the pulse on the surface of her skin.

“Please? Mark me,” his insistent voice lacked a tremor of fear or reticent waffling.

“Cal…”

“Do it. Mark me as yours. Mark me.”

In their face off, when they’d landed in heaps in a draw, she’d left crackling branches under his skin. The healer wiped him clean, no evidence of her anywhere to be found. It was weeks into their bedroom games when he first admitted he wanted those sparks back. She resisted.

Marks made in anger or competition… One thing. Marks made in lust… Another. Marks made permanent and purposefully, on command, marks that came from trust as much as lust… Something wholly different.

“Please? Mark me, make me yours.” And behind it all: claim me, love me, choose me.

Mare connected freckles and bruises with her index finger, her heart weighing in her head. What was permanence when you had skin healers? What was choice to a prince? What was love to a girl always destined for war? He shifted under her, a powerful, hulking man of muscle asking her… her… to choose him.

She set her finger on his shoulder blade and felt more than saw the charge. His body tensed, he shook in anticipation. She increased. The light arched. She waited for him to say stop, but he only moaned soft and deep. She pulled more from the walls and the wires. His breath twisted erratic. His muscles seized. A crisp line slipped through his skin and sliced a path. Another finger, another branch. And another. Then another. A string of strikes up his shoulder. A burst to make them deep. And then darkness.

His hot, aching body twitched in rapturous ecstasy. And her hands could scarcely remove the straps fast enough to quench her own needs.

Untethered, he rolled and she let him twist between her legs. He was instant affection, calming her piercing need into a low, thrumming want. Warm hands up her thighs. Hot fingers pulled her shoulders down until she folded chest to chest. And then strong shoulders and big arms around her. Eager, but relaxed hips jostled up at random, comforting intervals.

His lips kissed her ear and temple and pushed her face so he could have her lips. She slipped him tongue and felt the throaty sigh all along her torso. Another bump from his hips followed by a directing push of his hand.

But that wasn’t the game he asked for.

Mare’s hand pushed down on his shoulder, breaking herself free of his embrace. His hand tried again, nudging her side. She dragged his arm back to the restraint.

“You think you’re done?” Her tone lowered, his body tensed. He let her shackle his hands back to the bed.

Purple glowed on her fingertips. In the pitch black, she painted with light. She danced goose bumps onto his chest. Tickled jerking shakes from his nipples. Forced involuntary hunting swings from his hips. With the tip of her tongue she wrote her name under his belly button.

“Oh, jeez, Mare… Fuck,” he panted. His back arched.

Her hand palmed his inner thigh and zinged a shock. He yelped. “Shh,” she reminded him.

She left him wanting. She let current trail up his body as she sidled up. Her first knee didn’t even get to his shoulder before his nipping teeth tugged at her thigh. He sucked small, slow bruises, working his way to her center. And then he mutinied.

Cal licked and sucked and pulled in all the teasing ways without ever touching her clit. She dug hands into his hair but could not force him to cooperate. She sent a warning zap into his side and he connected for a moment, too brief. Another zap, another quick then evasive application.

She grabbed him and he curled.

“Not there. Not there.”

She let a low current pulse slip out her fingers and he moaned into her, lavishing her exactly where she needed. She stroked him and pulsed him, his hips curled up to meet her hand and he murmured, “Not there.” The idle words of his fantasy lulling between gasps of affirmative pleasure.

When she peaked, she dropped him and pressed him until she finished. And then she slid off him. Toweling sweat and fluids off, listening to him groan unfulfilled in the dark.

“Are you ready, yet?” she asked.

“Yes,” he gasped.

But he didn’t use his target word, just like he had yet to use his safe word. Mare’s eyebrow quirked up, even though he wasn’t able to see. Her mind spun with ideas. Slow, methodical tortures. Combinations. Deprivations. A puzzle to play until he said, “Unlock” or until he whimpered, “Marble rye.”


	36. Shoulder Touching: Mare, Kilorn

Tumblr prompt: Shoulder touching for Mare and Kilorn

.

Mare hovered at the alley entrance. She turned her head and both wanted to look away but couldn’t help but watch. She squirmed and flinched weighing the odds of her intervention helping at all. Fortunately, his assailants were less interested in damage than proving their point and after one final kick, they left him heaving against the wall.

Mare kept close to the wall, flattening herself as they passed. Once by them, she rushed forward. Kilorn was already making it to his feet with heavy reliance on the bricks. She took his elbow and put a hand on his back. Taking his time, he checked himself for broken bones (of which he had none) and bruises (of which he had many). Mare checked him for blood, guiding his shirt tail to his nose and the corner of his right eye.

Wordlessly, they agreed it was time to move. Kilorn let her arm circle his waist and put his arm across her shoulder, leaning into her to counter the ache in his left knee.

“So, Kilorn, what did we learn today?”

“Don’t bet on the Telky?” Mare pushed on him, he groaned.

“How about, don’t bet with money you don’t have?”

“Right, that…” he coughed.


	37. Stroking Hair: Mare, Cal

Tumblr prompt: hair stroking for Mare and Cal  
.  
She didn’t sleep well, and he didn’t sleep well, and sometimes that meant they both didn’t sleep but instead laid on the bed together breaking the silence only with occasional, irritated huffs. He tried one, seeking out whether tonight would be one of those nights or if he’d be alone in his wakefulness. She didn’t move or mimic. He huffed again. No response.

He rolled onto his side without regard for her, hoping she’d awaken as he shifted. He weighed his options. Wake her and she might me angry. Wake her and she might be horny and maybe that could go places… but really he just wanted her to wrap her arms around him and hold him until he fell asleep. And that was too selfish to propel him into action.

He risked only one subtle touch on her arm and then guilt beat him back another inch. He clutched his hands up under his chin, pulling his arms in tight to his body. Her hair splayed soft across the pillow tickled his fingertips. Slowly, he reached and grabbed one curling lock and moved his hand in closer to her head, giving himself slack. He carded the curl between his fingers, around the tips and over his knuckles. He shifted forward and smelled the essence of Mare and let the silky strands slide against his lips. He took a whole handful and crushed it in his fist, holding onto her in the darkness. Fast, too fast, he woke alone in the morning, his fingers still kneading the air.


	38. Piggyback rides - Mare and Kilorn

Tumblr prompt: piggyback rides, Mare and Kilorn

.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?” Farley sucked the marrow out of the chicken bone and kicked Cal out of his trance.

He snapped away from the window and cleared his throat. “I was just thinking through the rations report. Did the count on the small ballistics seem small to you?”

“Small ballistics? You mean the seven million rounds that Montfort shipped, or the ten million they’re working on currently?” She raised an eyebrow. Nothing about the rations report had seemed off, except for maybe the coffee, but as the only woman with a nursing infant, maybe she was overly sensitive about the caffeine supplies.

“I dunno, seemed low. That’s all,” he cleared his throat again and crossed his arms, stepping out of the room Command had taken over for planning.

Farley looked out the window onto the garden below. His territorial hackles must have been raised by the loitering Guard soldiers enjoying the sun in their conquered Archeon palace. Childish, she thought. Then squeals erupted, drawing her attention back.

From one corner, Cameron with Ada perched on her back, gripping with her legs around her center loped forward. Ada held a stick high above her head, screaming with glee. From behind the trees, another pair emerged. Mare swung wildly from her position aboard Kilorn. He twisted and turned nearly dropping her, but she righted herself and they circled Cameron whooping as they struck.

Childish, she thought again, but this time with a broad smile.


	39. Shoulder Touching: Mare, Cal

Tumblr prompt: shoulder touching, Mare and Cal

.

Mare toweled through her hair, combing out the tangles with her fingertips. The small fire in the center of the room was dying and along with it the luxurious warmth of their bath room. If there was one thing she wished she could keep from her captivity, it was the bath facilities. The shower with unlimited hot water, the steam that would rise and coil over the shower door and mist the mirror. But in their little wooden bunker, she had to settle for just a weekly sponge bath. But at least the water was hot and the room warm and they still had soap. 

She shook out her clean clothes and pulled them on over her head, dropping her soiled garments in the wash basket. It was Kilorn’s turn to do the laundry. The thought occurred to her with her underwear in hand, and she paused for a moment hoping he didn’t ever linger on her knickers when he was washing. She’d never liked doing the laundry. Faced with the choice of chancing his having a fetish and having to soak her own clothes, she dropped them in the basket.

The cold air pulsed around her sweeping away her relaxation with the steam. She tensed, stepping into the unheated hallway and pulled on her shoes. The space was silent, no one chatting or snoring. She edged her way to the exit curious about their entertainment options but also not ready to great the chill of the evening air. Little sparks from fireflies danced above the ground and the entire crew -well, the adults- were gathered around the fire outside. The kids ran from tree to tree playing tag.

“No, you see, it’s been around for millennia! Over a thousand years! It said 500 BC, and BC must mean before change. So if it’s been three hundred years since we reset our calendar and five hundred years since then, that’s almost a thousand years.” Ada was explaining.

Cal sat on an upturned log, a cup of something between his hands. Farley leaned into Shade both their legs outstretched towards the fire.

Farley held up a hand, index finger extended, “So you’re saying that reds had a system where everyone had a say?”

“I mean, yeah, reds, but really everyone. It was before the change, so there were no silvers, yet,” Ada nodded.

Kilorn had a confused grimace on his face, like he’d heard two contrasting things and needed to hear them again. His hands worked at the hide of a rabbit, tanning the skin into something supple. 

Farley, with another question, “And you believe this is the same model in Montfort?”

“I think so. I don’t know enough about Montfort yet, but these people, the Greeks, they elected people to represent them and they sent them to one location. It sounds a lot like Montfort,” Ada confirmed.

Mare stood next to Cal and listened as Ada babbled about the establishment of a representative government. Her eyes felt heavy for the vocabulary and her mind fuzzed at the back and forth between Farley and Ada. She took a deep breath and took advantage of the only true benefit of their height discrepancy. She leaned her elbow on Cal’s shoulder and tucked one foot behind her other heel. He straightened to support her, and then his hand slid out and snaked around her knee.


	40. Hindsight (prompt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Can write something extremely sad and angsty? Like killing Clara or Farley and let the other one grieve? Or have still-alive-at-the-end Maven think about Cal's death? Turn the angsty grief over Shade into something tangible by including Mare (and Kilorn)'s childhood memories? Well, whatever suits you. Let your dementors runs free^^° (Chaoslaborantin)

Mare leaned back against the tree, Kilorn handed her a sandwich. She examined it for a moment. The bread was stale and hard, the filling made from mustard and eggs. The first bite threatened to crack her teeth, but it was food, and protein at that. The murmur about a supply convoy must have been true. Kilorn wasn’t as picky, she saw bite marks in the paper wrap. He chomped greedily. Their rations were the same, but looking up at him, calorie for calorie, he required more. Most of the men were shrinking into themselves at a faster rate than the women. But all was fair in the Scarlet Guard. Rations for one equaled the rations for any other.  


Tick, tick, tick. Thunk. Thunk. Scrape. Clash.

She balanced her meal on her knee and covered her ears. Kilorn turned into her, his fingers pressed to his ear drums. His shoulder shielded her.

Boom! The mortar launched up in a wide arch and twisted down over the valley. Dust kicked up from the recoil. She watched the slight smokey trail marking it’s trajectory. Something launched up from the city and the shell exploded above the wall raining fragments. Tramy carried the next shell to the loading hatch. One of the tanks on the far side sent a shot. One of the seven motor launchers sent off rounds every minute.  


“The rhythm is actually musical.” Kilorn remarked, tucking the crust into his mouth.

“Musical or maddening?

Tick, tick, tick. Thunk. Thunk. Scrape. Clash. She covered her ears again as the launcher just past Tramy’s prepared to fire.

Boom!

Less dust. More smoke. A long trail to the wall, an explosion.  


Kilorn dropped his hands, ears less vulnerable for at least another five minutes. He rubs his hands on his knees. Mare can see his nervousness in the tap of his thumbs inside of his knees. She leaned her head against his shoulder and took a steadying breath. He aped her motions and the next boom went off.  


“Farley wants a briefing at six. Command is sending you in tonight,” he said. His thumbs stilled.   


That small message had been the most of his nerves. Mare and most of the New Bloods had been tattered by non-stop fighting and panicked calamities. It had been a hard march north and Mare let it all blend with her broken heart into often scathing and critical statements. But she was turning over a new leaf, as of that morning, when she learned that Cal had Archeon surrounded. The good news had almost everyone feeling more optimistic.  


“I guess two days of artillery was a pretty good break,” she offered as evidence that she wouldn’t snap on him.  


“Don’t get hot headed,” Kilorn started. He would have said these lines whether or not she’d taken his head off. But it was more pleasant when she wasn’t red faced and yelling.  


“I won’t.”  


“Don’t lose focus.” His hand moved to her knee, gripping tight.  


“I won’t,” she let the annoyance coat her words. Optimistic wasn’t the same as being in good-spirits. “Not my first time, you know.”

“I know,” he pulled his hand away.  


She tore the second half of her sandwich in half and set it on her knee. Her turn. “Don’t get antsy. Double check the orders before you send off a blast.”

“You hear thing wrong once and no one let’s you live it down!” he remarked, exasperated, but playful. He set the bit of sandwich back on her leg.   


She pushed it back, insisting he take it. “And don’t get hurt. I’ve got enough to worry about at the front.”

“We’re miles away, they don’t have any guns that reach this far. We’ll be making sure breakfast is ready when you get back.” He winked and popped the sandwich into his mouth.  


Their arguments and banter mixed with assurances formed the routine of the campaign through the western Lakelands. Both were comforted by the motions even if the knew every word of their script. And like always, Kilorn ’s hand wrapped hers and didn’t let go until his break ended. She rested her temple on her arms on her knees, folded up against the tree, moving only to cover her ears.

—-  


Thirty airjets flew in five formations of six. That’s what the radio reported. Mare could only see three clusters from their position outside the city. The assumed destinations: Tuck and Archeon. Maven had Cal’s legion to worry about and the supplies from Montfort undoubtedly had given Cal an edge. A little siege on a small city was nothing in comparison. Mare bit her lip and hoped her family evacuated fast or made their way to the bunkers. She hoped Cal stayed safe, and didn’t waste the resources he co-oped from the Guard. She tried to block it from her mind, but she turned back, looking over her shoulder, squinting. Ella tapped her arm. There was nothing she could do but March forward.

Three hours of tit and tat at the front lines wiped the airjets from her mind. She had a wall the breach. Five Snapdragons circled in a 10 mile radius around the center of the siege. They must have arrived from the eastern Lakelands or some other base. They weren’t part of the plans, they were supposed to all be flying to bigger targets. Davidson dropped his position and came to her side, putting up a shield between Mare and the assaulting stoneskins and strongarms.

“can you Bring them down?“ He groaned, taking one direct hit after another. “We don’t have protection for the back-line.”  


Mare reached and felt but just as she grabbed one it slipped away. She felt another and tried to snap off it’s battery as quick as a blink, but, again, it moved on. Their anti-aircraft canons roared blast after blast up into the path of the planes and brought down three. Another swept through, low and she mangled it into a hillside. While her concentration was fixed on downing one, another buzzed low behind them, the last one. The only snap dragon in the sky released it’s hatch.  


The ground shook. Three… Seven… Fifteen… More than she could count, the bombs rumbled, exploded, bounced and then detonated. The whole line lost their legs and shielded their heads. But they were too far for debris to strike them immediately. It took seven long seconds for the wind to carry the first sheet of metal and spray of rock to them.   


Mare watched the debris billowing up from their artillery line. From where all the reds in their auxiliary were stationed with the long-ranged mortars and the anti-aircraft. From where Farley commanded and her brothers were stationed. From where Kilorn sat in the communication booth, relaying information one side to the other.  


“This isn’t real.” She murmured, standing up, the lone standing figure in their entire line.

Her ears rang. A whirling curled around the tone. Sweat dripped from her neck. She swiped it, watching it mix with the dust on her fingers. She rubbed the slippery grit between her index and thumb. Dust so fine she started to shake. Not dust. Not dust at all, ash. Feathery ash, some still slipping from embers to gray puffs, as it floated like snow flakes and danced like seed pods. It clung to hair and sweat on every body around her. It floated on top of the blood pooling on the ground next to a comrade’s amputated leg.

Still framed like a photo, Mare thought of winter. The silence of snowfall and the beauty of clean, pure white blanketing the Stilts before boots could churn it into the mud. She shook.  


“Get down!” Davidson hollered, pushing her under him and raising his shield just in time to block the renewed assault.

She sucked in as she hit the dirt and tasted the carbon and minerals, then hacked it out again. Did she taste Bree on her tongue? Her whole body shook. Her fingers twitched. Her legs pushed and Davidson fell back on the heels of his hands. His hands gripped her but couldn’t hold against the jerking force of her limbs.  


Mare course with a spectrum of purples from the faint pastel of lavender to the almost invisible darkness of violet. She could touch every pulse of every being around her. She could count the individuals, pin point their positions, sense which stood alone and which ones clustered. She charged into a purple abyss to the soundtrack of whirling tones and the flashes of her own making.

—

The smoke billowed up in blinding plumes. The inferno commanded its own breeze that flicked up dust and ash at the edges. Ash drifted from high up, carried out on the subtle wind. Mare didn’t know when she’d left the battle or how she’d left. She only knew she’d stood in a silent, still crater where the wall had been removed by a mortar and was out of things to kill. And the next scene she cataloged was the smoke miles away from the city walls. She stumbled. She stood. She ran. She collapsed and coughed on smoke the closer she came. She jerked up her red scarf filtering the largest of the debris.  


Hulking forms smoldered. Guns. Tanks. Transports. Twisted panels and exposed wires. Craters. Deep gullies of dirt. A black-charred tangle with more legs and arms than just one person. Mare forced herself to look, examine, count bony protrusions and identify parts.  


She searched for electronics, a current of life, an area untouched by the destruction. She searched for a communicator or a wrist watch. She even dug deep into herself to bring out the pulses of living things, but nothing called from the flames. She stumbled through the first curtain into a barren hole and reached out again. One slow pulse drew her through more black smoke. She tripped and gagged, vomiting next to the obliterated pile of red-stained stumps. She pushed forward to the pulse.

A hatch creaked open from the top of an overturned heavy tank. She sprinted forward, begging God after God for a familiar face. The soot-coated, grimacing soldiers that fell out, easing to the ground like they were landing on the moon, were not large enough to be her brothers. They weren’t tall enough to even be Kilorn. And certainly, they were not female. The pulse pulled her past them.

Down one edge of a still-hot crater and past the shell of a bomb, she scrambled. She swatted her arms to clear pitch-black smoke from her eyes dampening her face and the scarf with the stinging tears that fought the caustic chemicals in the air. She raced through plume after plume feeling the pulse grow stronger as she came closer. Mare passed it. She swirled in a circle looking for someone, anyone. She circled the pulse, upending hot metal plates and pushing aside limbs. She dug in the ground.

A soft white hand with a watch and less arm than wrist came to the surface. A watch that still ticked with quartz precision. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. Four-one-thousand.

Somewhere in the distance, communicators and transports approached, though she could feel them more than hear them. She touched their wires and their batteries, felt the signature that meant they belonged to the guard. And she watched the hand on the watch turn.

-

Clara lost her mother. Clara lost her father. Mare reminded herself that that was a thousand times worse than losing one’s brothers, but she didn’t fully believe it. Parents were supposed to die first, before their kids. But pain is pain is pain is pain is life. Pain is her life, now. Or maybe it always was. And what hurts worse than lining up one grief next to another was that none of them had to die.   


Mare watched the seconds on the watch tick by as they shoveled the last of the dirt onto the mass grave. Watched from her knees, where she fell from exhaustion, where her body failed her and yet didn’t have the decency to die.

There would be no headstone for Diana Farley next to Shade Barrow’s. There would be no headstone for Bree or Tramy. Nothing for Kilorn. Just a pit.    


At least they were all together. Davidson said it first.  


That was bullshit. Mare’s fingers flinched and flickered in near constant currents. They let her sit and look over the mound, one mourner among two hundred survivors while they packed.  


After what she’d done on the front line, few dared approach to coddle or even comfort her. Not even Tyton attempted. His eyes widened whenever they did managed to meet. Her purple sparks rarely receded beneath her skin. Even incidental touches had wounded a few.  


They tried to take the shovel from her. In fact, she’d been the first to start digging. She cut walls in one of the deeper craters, joined by a rotation of people. When her arms couldn’t lift the shovel, she stumbled up and out to the edge. Without the smoke, she faced the totality of the loss. She wondered a literal wraith on the surface of the earth, collecting a leg, an arm, a butchered hump of someone she’d failed.    


She couldn’t make Bree, or Kilorn, or add together enough things to find Tramy. She couldn’t scrape enough from the soil to know where Farley would rest. She couldn’t see anyone just parts: teeth, clumps of hair, brows stains, white bones, black charred sticks. Burnt lumps of metal and scattered upholstered seats their own gruesome inventory–not enough to even make a transport from all that was left.   


Mare counted the femurs, and the skulls, and the fingers. She counted everything. She added it together and couldn’t make it work. The scale was too vast; the absences too apparent. Reality was remade in a second’s decision. She could so clearly see the outcome if she’d chosen the other plane, that it sealed the nightmarish quality into place. Their pleading fell on deaf ears. She didn’t need to sleep, she’d surely wake soon enough.  


Logic and theories and pleading didn’t swap the unbelieving out of her denials. She didn’t find enough of them so they must not be there. They must be somewhere else, anywhere else. Bree is with a girlfriend. Tramy is charming recruits. Kilorn is practicing his letters with his feet dipped in the river. Farley is rocking Clara back in her mother’s living room. The must be an answer to where they all went and why they weren’t there. A better answer.

On her knees, she watched the seconds tick. She waited to wake up. She waited for the reality that came with grounding the other plane. When the army packed to move on, she could wait for her family no longer. And some how, she walked on.

One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. She felt the quartz tick on her wrist. She timed her zombie steps. She stumbled the walk of the sleepless. She fell in line like every other soldier born destined for war.

  


—  


Cameron, clustered in her own denial, stormed through the lines of new bloods. She grabbed soldiers with uniforms and looked for Farley. Wet streaks dribbled down her chin as each returned an anguished expression. She worked her way through the lines.   


Mare hunched on the back of a cart full of what they could pull from the bodies and the wreckage. She hugged her knees up to her chest and stared blankly. Cameron almost missed her in her rush through the throngs. But Davidson pointed her to the cart.

Mare pushed her forehead into her knees so she wouldn’t have to face he rage, the accusation that Cameron’s outline would surely bring.

“What happened?” Cameron walked behind the cart. No response. She trotted and climbed aboard next to Mare. “What happened?” she sobbed.

“I fell for the decoy. I brought down the wrong jet.” Mare’s heart broke all over again.  


“The wrong jet? You… the wrong jet?” Cameron lost her breath, and then she lost control.

Mare wriggled in discomfort. Discomfort she wanted. A smothering pressure that strangled her to the cusp of death. Again, no mercy for Mare. Cameron released her and screamed into an angry sob. Mare gasped air she didn’t want and her heart pushed blood she hated having.


	41. Prompt - Marecal, Lapsitting

Tumblr prompt: Marecal, Lapsitting

...

Between fights, between victories and defeats was a whole lot of waiting. And while they trained a lot, there were still plenty of unscheduled hours. Soldiers might use that time to read up on exams for their next positions, or write letters home, or clean equipment, or even play sports or card games. But the Guard wasn't exactly an army of soldiers. Almost every red and new blood and even the silvers were there because it struck them as more advantageous than to sit in their homes and wait for the fight to find them. A couple thousand bored non-soldiers tended to find trouble way beyond their worth.

Boredom and orders pulled the herds of discontented men and women together into the hangars to watch all sorts of loosely organized entertainment. Boxing drew the biggest crowds but also the rowdiest responses so they didn't do that more than once every two weeks. New bloods with more amazing abilities were forced into shows reminiscent of magicians but without the magic of the unexplained. Quiz shows and game shows were moderately more popular if the prizes were better than extra rations at the mess hall. Lately, they'd rested on holding amateur night day after day.

Mare made it her business to be as far away from the singers and the musicians as possible. Generally, she could find work at her mother's house that needed doing. Laundry didn't wash itself and compared to the Joster twin's ventriloquism much preferable.

Cal, on the other hand, loved amateur nights. He laughed, he cheered, he rooted for the young ones and cried at the ballads. Maybe that's the true reason why Mare attempts to stay away, but it's also the only reason she occasionally goes. He is no more himself than when he's supporting the acts. She loves his joy more than her ears love silence.

Cal laughed fill belly laughs and glanced at her to check that she was watching. Sometimes, he was so simple and that could make her smile on even the worst days. When Rosemary Roti climbed the stage for the second time that week and the familiar backing of the piano began, Cal's smile slipped into the slightly parted anticipatory pout that foretold the coming tears. He reached for her. He pawed her arms until she relented. And then he pulled her into his lap and held her.

"What is it about this song?"

"My father sang it because it was my mother's favorite." And then his lips closed on the cloth of her shirt and his breathing became paced against her skin.


	42. Prompt - Ptolewren, Evangeline

Prompt (from Tumblr): #25: "When you love someone, you don't just stop. Ever. Even when people roll their eyes or call you crazy… even then. Especially then!"

AND - 2nd prompt, same person: "I can't be a mistress, I can't be a bastard's mother," I sob, "my family has been through so much and I won't drag the Skonos name down."

...

She counted underwear (7), socks (10), pants (3), shirts (3), sweaters (2), and then looked around the room scanning from her right to her left. Something mindbogglingly small was missing. It tickled the back of her ears and made her spin in a circle. Something… maybe important. She spun again, looked at her watch, and decided what ever it was, it could obviously be replaced.

"What are you doing?"

She fell back as if pushed from her feet. The bed bounced her stiff frame. Her jaw trembled. She looked all around Evangeline as if she could wish herself out of the room.

"What are you doing?" Evangeline asked again, stepping forward and touching the satchel open next to her. "You think you're leaving?"

"I have to."

Evangeline snorted and picked up the thick, corded sweater, holding it up to her own body. The purple made the blue in the hallow of her eyes stand out sharply.

"Put it back."

"Or else you can't leave?" Evangeline's smile was small and quirked on one side.

Wren grabbed the sweater and pushed it into the satchel closing and latching the top. She held the handles with both hands in front of her legs and waited as if under inspection. Evangeline made her evaluations, stepped around her, looked at the plaited ropes curled around her head and the warm wool coat strapped around her middle.

"That coat will be too small in a month or two. Did you pack a second?" Evangeline picked at the back seem.

"It won't."

"It will."

"It won't," Wren resisted the urge to clutch her abdomen.

"It will," Evangeline hissed. "If it isn't, I'll kill you myself and spare him the torture of it."

"It's my decision."

"Every decision has consequences, obviously."

"I can't have a bastard child. My family… The house of Skonos is already in the mud, I can't sully it further."

"He'll recognize it as his. You can carry-on as if everything were proper and not one improper word would ever be said."

"To my face."

"Aloud."

"You can't promise that. They're already talking, gossiping, pointing, staring. It's already happening."

"So you don't love him? You lied to him for months?"

Wren wrenched back, another involuntary motion though this one from hurt and anger and not surprise. "Of course I love him. This has nothing to do with that."

"Once you're in love, it's hard to fall out of it. Believe me, I know. You don't just stop loving someone, even if it's the best thing for everyone. You don't wake up and say, 'Stop' and carry-on living. Even when people roll their eyes and call you crazy, especially then! If you leave this love behind, it'll rot you from the inside out and then what good will you be?"

"You never called it quits with Elane, don't pretend."

"I did. I tried for the same reasons as why you run. For my family, for the House of Samos, for all the things that were right and proper. I'm just lucky I didn't go mad before I found my way back. Would you risk it? Going mad?"

"I'm not so sure you didn't," Wren pursed her lips and gripped the bag tighter.


	43. Prompt - Thomaven, Elara

Tumblr prompt: I have a challenge for you. Can you manage to incorporate 2,5,7,13 for Thomas with Maven?

Hugs, Massages, Dancing, Stroking hair… shit… maybe?

...

Nothing in life came without effort and the larger the effort the better the reward. Someone should have put the Latin equivalent on the Merandus coat of arms for as often as they reminded each other of the fact. At the end of a war, sometimes very far in the future, there would be the biggest pay-off. They would rule the entire country and then they could take the continent. They could rule the world. But first, the plan had to be unfurled and the pawns put in place.

She'd trained her entire life for this. She'd first practiced on her uncles pet mice making them dance and squirm on command. She'd pushed them through mazes to the delight of her father and the cringing of her mother. Then she'd been given a servant to control and command. Her father had a skin healer take her voice for three weeks and cripple her hands. Her only tool to get food, water, to be bathed and cared for was the servant girl and her mind. She'd starved for days before she forced the girl from the hallway to her room.

At the time, it was more accurate to describe her gift as that of a megaphone. She blared through the frontal lobes and through memories until one after another, the poor girls went mad. But the third girl, she finally got the hang of it. She could make her warble like a nightingale and jump like a deer. She could order her to cut off her own fingers and burn her arms. When she was so scared and torn, she ordered her death. It was a final exam of sorts. Dispose of the playthings once their use had run out just like all the other ratty dolls. Eventually, she worked her way to other silvers, her own mother, her father, he uncles, and her brother. Eventually, she was the finest Whisper in a hundred years and she was unleashed at Whitehall Palace.

She didn't enjoy dispatching Coriane, but she craved that prize. Tiberius, the crown, the path to the Marandus house seated at the top of the world. She would have taken him with her, but the grief wouldn't clear. She even tried to pluck it from him, but his mind clung like a steal trap to Coriane. The best she could do was force her way to the front at the Queenstrial and the suffer his repetative inner monologues about his beloved and their perfect child. There was little room for the product of her union in his heart.

When she dug, she found his affection for Maven and refused to give it the same measure as his for Cal. He loved them differently and that was enough to condemn him. Maven, to her, was three times the promise of Cal, and she molded him where he couldn't stretch into the shoes he followed.

Diving into a mind so early had been a sin before she tiptoed into her child's mind and took command of his body. Once she'd crossed the threshold, she justified the daily dances she played in his mind. It was for him. For them. For the future and their right to rule. And besides, better her than someone else. She trusted no one else with Maven's mind.

For a time, she only peeked. She let him grow and develop without her manning the controls. She let Tiberius send him to the front, even agreed that he needed to be toughened and the last of his innocence wrung away because there was a war brewing. She needed him strong and aware. She needed him engaged and fighting. She needed him to come back the man she knew he could be - ruthless, cunning, driven to succeed.

How unfortunate to find that he came back sullen and withdrawn, guarding his thoughts from her like he'd rarely done. He didn't even come to diner and he spent far too much time with Cal for her liking. She even heard the lie in his mind when he excused himself from his uneaten diner. The plan was on the cusp of being executed and her primary pawn wasn't in position.

Before she turned the handle on his door, she was in his mind blurring the sounds in his ears. She cooed simple melodies that always soothed him as a child and not even a hitch hit his breathing. She pulled the chair close to him, settling down on the cushion and leaning back to admire him. He hand the Calore good-looks and her family's stark bone structure. He looked like an angel asleep and dreaming in moonlight. Allowing herself a moment, she wished there was another way. That he could be spared. But she needed him more than she needed anyone else. She closed her eyes and needled into his mind.

The barracks. She'd toured them once, and of course he'd just been there so they naturally played the backdrop to his dreams. The barracks were cold and he supplied a subtle heat for the others. They came closer to him and while the words were muffled, he conversed and felt happy. She could feel the sense of free-joy. The childlike innocence of the moment centered on one boy more so than the others.

A boy to her, a man to Maven. A broad boy with a little more around the center than the others. He was fresh faced and red-blooded. He smiled big with a thick bottom lip and a pimpled-scared face. Maven called his eyes soft and like the brown silk of the Autumn feast's draperies. And the smell of him was organic: soils and almond oil. Warm. The felling was warm, safe, comfort, and…. and… love.

Elara sat back and looked at Maven, watched his teeth pinch his bottom lip and his fingers curl around the blankets. Her son had fallen in love, with a red. She almost gagged. She closed her eyes and tried to relax, but his dancing was too active to let her slump.

He and this boy had turned round and round in a hallway with a handful of other boys and a few girls with a little music box playing at their feet. He'd been spun, held, and his feet made to fall backwards in surprise. All with the same dough-centered boy. She sighed. They weren't even discrete. Hands in hair. The boy's hair had been tight curls that sprang back and bounced after Maven had scraped his scalp. She flinched at the kiss, focused on the arms that wrapped them together in the hallway.

She pulled Maven away. But he snapped back like one of the curls, resisting every insistence to leave. If it weren't for the joy, she'd have erased it from his mind in that very moment. But stealing a memory so complete and complex needed a plan or he'd launch himself out of the window with madness. Better to see the rest of it, all of it, to understand where she had to clip and pick to separate this love from his mind.

Her cheeks pinked when their clothes fell away and warm hands met the sore, cold skin of shoulders.

Elara stood, backing out as she backed away. Another night. Another time. It was enough to know she'd have to see more. But she could not see him in that way not all in one night.


	44. Prompt - Runnin', Runnin'

SamanthaSlytherin (Tumblr) prompt:

Writing promt. Not a song title but one of my favorite lyrics to the moment: Darling, come on and let me in. Darling, all of the strangers are gone, they're gone. I said, darling, come on and let me see. Darling, I promise that I won't run. From Camila Cabello's In the Dark. You can use any fandom you like.

...

"Azaleas?" Farley curled her nose.

"Yep," Kilorn smacked the 'p' between his lips and smacked the palm of one hand on the closed fist of the other.

"What else?"

"Silver vs. gold bands."

"Let me guess, Calore wants silver?"

"Oh no, he's team 'I don't give a fuck.' Mostly it was Anabel arguing precedent with herself, but Evangeline wants gold."

"Did they say anything about a push into the Lakelands?"

"It was all bullshit. You can ask the dust mites in the air vent if you don't believe me. There were hundreds of them." He made a point to scratch behind his ears.

"This doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't," Ada hummed disapprovingly, "Azaleas only grow in the south of Norta. They'd be hard to find around here."

Farley scoffed, but put on a kind tone to explain, "I meant that they're planning a farce of a wedding instead of pressing the advantage we just secured."

"It's not a farce. It's an alliance that makes them both or our enemies. We should have left already," Mare said. She kicked her feet against each other, bored with the analysis of Kilorn's day-long listening above the council chambers.

"Enemies is harsh." Farley cast her a sympathetic grimace and then turned back to Kilorn. "There was nothing else?"

"Grand total of: jack shit," he confirmed. "Can I go wash off the mites. I wasn't joking about the mites."

"Yeah, go, go," Farley dismissed. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Cameron blocked Kilorn's exit. He rolled his eyes and turned sideways to allow her entry before taking his leave. She stepped up and pinched a bit of food off the table and cupped it in her hand as she approached.

Farley watched her. Mare watched her. Even Ada followed her movements as she looked around the room and at the maps on the tables.

"You have something to report, Cameron?" Farley asked.

"Oh, sure." Cameron absently fingered crumbs into her lips and looked out the window.

Farley waited. Mare waited. Ada prepared her pen to take notes. Farley cleared her throat and Cameron continued looking at the seal where the widow met the frame.

"Cameron, you have a report?"

"Yep," she tossed her head back and let the remainder of her vittles fall into her mouth.

"Then report," Farley sighed and moved to an open chair.

"Please," Cameron said.

"Excuse me?" Farley leaned forward.

"Report, please," Cameron made the clarification and smiled a taunting, thin smile.

"Report, Cole. Or I will put you on rations," Farley's fingers tapped the communicator on her hip.

"You'll be giving me seconds, Farley." Cameron grinned and wobbled excitedly on her toes.

"Then out with it!"

"Fine, fine. Anabel's down two personal guards and a Blackfin is missing. Rumor is that the young elites have vanished along with it"

"Young elites? Who do you mean?" Mare sat forward.

"Oh, let's see. There's Wren Skonos, and Sonya Iral. Then I heard that Ptolemus is in a furry because his wife, Elaine isn't anywhere to be found. And then there's the case of the disappearing princess."

"Evangeline's gone? With Elaine?" Mare was on her feet.

"And with Calore. Seems The Seventh is taking his party elsewhere. I guess his grandma was insisting on emeralds instead of rubies in their goblets or something."

Mare's mouth made motion but didn't move as she tongued his name and couldn't say it. "He left? With them?"

"Cal left? And the young silvers with him?" Farley wanted confirmation as well.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Cal-the-Coward, Elaine, Evangeline, Wren, Sonya. It's a lot of tail chasing that son-of-a-bitch."

"Where did they go?" Mare asked.

"If I knew, do you think the Blackfin would be missing?" Cameron challenged.

Farley snapped to her feet and squeezed Cameron's arm as she passed. Ada followed quickly and Mare skipped a few strides to keep pace.

"Farley! What does this mean?" Mare called.

"The silvers can't track those planes. Their technology was too badly damaged in the assaults. They need the Guard to get their children back. It means, we have leverage."

Mare kept pace until her shoulder wasn't under her control. Whipped around and pressed down a hallway, Cameron pushed her through the palace, protesting.

"Come on. You're no use to them. She's gonna go scheme her way into something. We can go get some real information."

"What do you mean?" Mare asked, moving to cooperate and follow Cameron.

"Remember, Cal-the-Coward used ancient tech to contact his aunt? I bet he's still using it for what ever he's doing. So let's go turn on some transmitters and figure out his plan."

"You think he's gonna talk to us about what they're doing?"

"He'll talk to you. You pull on your girl-distressed voice and he'll snap in two to keep you from crying."

"You over estimate my hold on him." Mare pulled up, slowing and then standing in the hall.

"No, Mare. He's on a frickin' plane out of here. I think you're the one underestimating how far you got under his skin. Come on. Let's go see where the traitor's going." Cameron continued to push forward and Mare followed too curious and too hopeful to fall behind.

—

"Flaming-fish, flaming-fish this is Silencer, do you copy?" Cameron shmoozed into the microphone, playing with dials. They'd been messing around with different controls for over ten minutes and getting static in response.

"Let's get some food. This is dumb." Mare tossed a rock out into the air towards the empty space that had been their battlefield.

Cameron twisted the dial a little and paused.

"Flaming-fish, do you copy? This is silencer, do you copy?" she called again.

"Cameron, what do you want?" Cal sounded tired and thin through the little speaker.

"Hey, traitor. What's got you running for cover?" Mare pursed her lips, a silent warning to lay-off.

"None of your's, Cameron. Farley with you?"

"Naw, the Colonel has bigger fish to fry with you being in one of her planes and all."

"Stolen from Norta."

"Right, Norta, that country you're running from."

"Get to the point or I'm gonna disconnect," Cal threatened.

Mare lunged forward. "Wait. Just wait."

"Mare?" The static didn't distort the throatiness of his question.

"Where are you going?"

"I wish I could have taken you with me."

"Where are you going?" Mare demanded, again.

"I'm trying to be who you want me to be."

"Then come back, right now. Come back to the Guard."

"I can't do that. Not yet. I gotta do something first."

"And the others? What about Evangeline and Elaine? Wren? What are they doing?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Yes, you can. What is going on?"

"It's better that you don't know," Cal laughed a little. "You an the hoard of command behind you."

"No one's here but me. Even Cameron's gone. It was just her and me to start. But she's just left." Cameron crossed her arms defiant to actually follow directions. "Just tell me."

"All I'll say is that I'm helping out my friends."

"Flying your false friends out of our war is not going to stop the war from reaching them."

"Yeah, maybe they aren't my friends. Maybe I've never had a friend besides you. But if I didn't help them, I'd just be confirming that I never deserved you. And I want so bad to have deserved you."

"Come back and prove it to me. Come back to the Guard." Mare listened to the long crackle of the line. His exhale came across heavy and long. A pop coursed through the airwaves and over the speaker. "Cal? Cal! Are you there? Cal?" She called, desperate at the sudden finality of the pop. Tears bubbled and streaked, washing her in grief all over again.


	45. Prompt - Ambition - Evangeline, Ptolemus

Tumblr prompt (songs): My Shot & The Story of Tonight - RQ (these are two separate songs btw, both from the Hamilton soundtrack)

...

_I am not throwing away my shot  
_ _I am not throwing away my shot  
_ _Hey yo, I'm just like my country  
_ _I'm young, scrappy and hungry  
_ _And I'm not throwing away my shot_

...

"Just listen, please?" She pulled him, but he continued to walk. A rough jerk and he at least spun to walk backwards.

"No, you listen, for once, there's something better for me. I know that's like the role-reversal of the century, but for once in our lives, I could do something really important." He glanced over his shoulder to examine the distance between them and others.

"Ptoly, this isn't right. It's splitting the country," Evangeline's hand didn't release his arm even though he'd finally stopped to let her talk.

"It isn't wrong! What has House Calore really done for us lately? I mean, treating you like a vase they can pass between brothers? Disgraceful!"

"And that's why I want out of this game."

"You won't marry him. I promise you."

"How can you promise me that and at the same time not do anything to prevent it?" Evangeline made and unmade two of her buttons into razor blades to keep herself calm.

"I have a plan," Ptolemus smoothed the sleeves of her dress with a wave of his hand.

"What is it?" She rippled them back into divots.

"You won't like it." Ptolemus scrunched his face like he was about to tell her the pudding would be banana, inconsequential and without true understanding of the stakes. She almost threw the razors into him.

Instead, she tried a little charm and feigned interest, "How can I help you if you don't tell me?"

He pretended to mull over but then couldn't help himself and included her. "What if your fiance didn't make it through the end of next week? Dead on the battlefield, murdered in his sleep? Some way, some how, just gone."

"He doesn't deserve it," Evangeline bit her lip.

Ptolemus killing Cal wouldn't have surprised her no matter the circumstances. Her brother's hatred had simmered for years behind a deceptive facade. As long as they stood to gain, Ptolemus had played the faithful servant and friend. Well, minus their clash in the Bowl of Bones. But really, everyone was confused about loyalties at that point.

"I'm afraid it's the best, most direct, solution."

She nibbled on the outer edge of her thumb nail and then nodded. "I get that. I can see that. What else?"

"That's the tricky part. How attached are you to our father's head?"

Evangeline shook. "No. No. You wouldn't."

"For you, I would do anything. For us, I will do everything. We will rule Norta as it should be ruled. We will create the greatest dynasty ever seen on this continent. Father is too short sighted to come out on top. If we don't, all we'll ever rule is the Rift Valley."

"You're talking about murdering our father. That's what he did. He killed his own father. Only he's actually crazy. You're just… just…"

"Eve, I'm open to other ideas. Otherwise, I'll be walking you down the isle to that fucked up, red-sympathizer. Or, if we only go half, father will send you off to the next most viable house. You want to end up married to a third-rate noble?"

"I have to think about this. I can't agree to it without consideration."

Ptolemus smiled, lopsided and sad, "Eve, I wasn't asking your permission. I was just keeping you informed," He touched his palm to her cheek. He called out, cheering to Cal as he stepped into the banquet hall.

...

_Hey_   
_Something you will never see again_   
_No matter what she tells you_   
_Let's have another round tonight_   
_Raise a glass to the four of us_

...

Cal's grip on Ptolemus's forearm was strong and sure. His smile easy and unguarded. Since his decision to leave the GUard and press for the throne, he'd been anything but carefree. But among his friends, the opulence of the palace, the familiar and smiling faces, he had relaxed back into himself. Evangeline saw the boy she'd once claimed as her own.

Of course, at the time, he was just another game that she would win. She always won. She never settled for second best and the Prince of Norta was the top prize. The summers leading up to Queenstrial she'd observed him. She looked for the weaknesses and sought to fill them in a way that would make her selection guaranteed. And at that, she'd succeeded. She saw all those things in the hall.

Cal's back was straight and his posture that of one used to presenting himself, but ordinary like any other soldier. So she'd been ostentatious and almost vulgar in her ornamentation. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he greeted others, genuine affection passing between him and many others. So she guarded herself and put up the walls. When she became queen, she'd be sure to be the gate keeper, to suppress the easy access the other houses enjoyed. He made easy conversation. She became off-putting, ending engagements almost before they began. He danced with anyone that asked. She horded his time. He wanted no one, so she sought only to possess him.

She'd exhausted that part of herself that thirsted for success. The trophies of months apart from Elaine and battles where she nearly died just didn't satisfy like she thought a crown might. Cal greeted friends from House Arven, picking up their four year-old daughter and setting her easily onto his hip. Cal had always been too kind to be king. She looked at Ptolemus, who playfully tugged on the girl's dress and smiled brightly, falsely at his supposed friend. Between the two, if Ptoley weren't her brother, she knew which one should survive.

Cal placed the little girl down, the receiving line at an end. He clanged his glass even though it was much too early for speeches. The room turned in place to watch him.

"Greetings, guests, friends, family. I appreciate seeing each and everyone of you tonight. We're here to gather your support, count your heads, and count you among our blessings. By the colors we all wear, Norta will be strong once again." A small cheer whistled out. Cal patted them down with this hand. "Yes, yes, it's hard to wait. But between now and then, grave consequences will fall on us, and our friends that have chosen the other side. Some of us are gathered here for what may be the last time. That's the business of war. So let's not waste time thinking of the end, but of the now. Enjoy the night, the food, and each other. Hold it dear in memory to quench your thirst in times of troubles."

Evangeline held her glass up, heard the cheers, and felt burning tears line her lids. Ptolemus was wrapped by Cal's strong arm, pulling him in from the side. The gesture made her sick.


	46. Prompt - Inside Cal's Head

Tumblr prompt: "We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?"

This is a non-canon what-if... pure fantasy.

.

* * *

Everyday, no matter what, without fail, and all those cliches about the enduring resilience and the persistence of man to conquer everything can be applied to the son-of-a-bitch at my door. I, one without even a meager helping of stalwart values, roll over and bury myself under the covers. Scratch that… I am incredibly dedicated to sleeping, warmth, and the cozy heat of a cuddle. But in this balance between do-everything and do-nothing, I will not be allowed to stay under my covers without doing something and thus joining the do-everything in our daily run.

Also consistent, we don't run together. We start together. I manage for a bit, and then I just watch his shoulders get smaller and smaller in front of me until my lazy descent into walking can't be noticed. Then the day starts getting pleasant, if not exactly enjoyable. I can stride along as day breaks and hear the birds begin to whistle up in the bows of the trees. It's me, my aching legs, my burning lungs, and the natural beauty of the woods around our compound. Even that serene span comes crashing down at the hands of my only friend. And I use the term friend looser each time he crashes back through the undergrowth to prod me along at a better pace.

"Why must we do this everyday, Calore?" There's a wine that's unintentional but still well practiced.

It's my job to pick the script for the morning, one of the only real choices I have is what I say. There's six versions of this conversation and it all starts based on my choice. Today, I don't feel in good enough humor to use sarcasm or to banter. I just pick the truth, "Because, you make me."

"Let's put that to the side. It's good for you. It's good for me. That body is just wasting away, you know?"

"Ah yes, a reminder. Exactly what I need," I let a little of the sarcasm out. I try not to think of what my body looks like.

I can almost mime exactly what he will always say next, it's what makes me question myself more and more. Are there only six conversations because I'm unimaginative or because he's damaged me so much that my brain fills in for him in his absence? Does he even have to do this to me anymore or am I crazy enough to just do it for him, make it all up without him?

"We could be anywhere, but you're the one that chooses to be here. Why here?" The same question almost everyday. I flip through my three responses, wondering why I care to think about options at all, but then the script changes, he adds, "Why not here?"

Smooth as a dream, the base builds around me. The trees fall away and the clouds bloom around us. He's picking through my brain and reconstructing details I would never be able to recall on my own. He watches me, head tilted, a small smile on his face. He waits for me to react, to note that the storm on the horizon is the storm. The grove of trees ahead and the muddied trail to it is the grove. I've already noticed, I just won't satisfy his thirst with outward recognition.

He used to be so attentive in how he exacted his tortures. He'd pull me into the thrown room and put the sword back in my hands. He'd give me back the day before, the garden parties, hearing my father's praise. He'd give me back my brother and his sheepish grin over the chess pieces just before he declared he'd won. He'd give it all back and then walk me moment by moment through the betrayals. The deaths. The surrender. I know he tried to do it with her, but I'd blocked him. Something about her, or more so, something about me when it comes to her, has always locked him away from relieving all the wonderful things and that one thing, that one horrible thing… until now.

He runs. I trot. I feel my legs moving and it's startling how I've forgotten how little control I have here. How everything I get to decide is because he lets me decide, and right now, he's not letting me run the other way. He may not know what is so important about this place, but he's been dying to find out.

The thunder rumbles and echos of her voice shout out at me from the fence.

"That's not me."

Her laugh is sunshine reflecting through everything and heating my skin to temperatures I can't remember. Her smile is an aphrodisiac that ignites something primal in me. I have guarded her from him for so long, never thinking about her, blocking those memories, thinking about horrifying things instead. I've protected this for so long. But in doing so, I haven't heard that sound in what seems like a lifetime. I indulge.

"That's just weather. Sometimes, when it–"

He's listening, he's hearing, he's giddy and giggling at his discovery and I can't even allow myself to wallow in the lump of warm pain her voice brings to my chest. I cut her off. I stash her away. I let the rain fall. He pushes. I block. He screams. I break. He backs off. He does the equivalent of a retreat. He pretends it never happens, his face falls back into a playful smile.

"What's the matter Calore, aren't you gonna show me around?" He jabs, tugging at my arm. He could make me run, again. He tickles at my nerves and I feel the beginning of a movement, but he backs off.

"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?" He jeers at me.

It's true. I do want to. I want to feel the rain and her skin and the heat and the touch of something and assure myself that it really happened. Just the idea gives him purchase and his cold, slippery hands pry into my mind. But no. He can't have her. He can't have us. He can't have the real meaning behind the rain, the mud; this place was ours.

I focus. I think. I use his hands in my mind as an opening, and I rebuild the forests around Archeon, the castle walls, the barracks, the bridge, the smell of bread in the kitchen. I rebuild it and I run.


	47. Prompt - Spies, or Something

Tumblr Prompt: "I could kiss you right now!"

.

* * *

Heavy breathing, panting, giggles and then, "Shhh, before someone hears us."

And he hears them, loud and clear. The tenner; the way the "before" is pronounced like "beef-wor," he's certain it's Mare, and she's excited. There's more giggles and a loud crack of a backhand against a body.

"Ow!"

"Shhh, I said close your eyes," Kilorn's voice rings with glee and still stays somewhat quiet. A moan, slow and deep and gutteral and everything he's dreamed… but it's not in his ear, it's in Kilorn's.

"I can't believe… I could kiss you right now!" Mare's words rumble out of her chest in rapture. A bump against furniture, more giggles, panting, and what sounds like a smothered phrase cut off by a deeper groan, Kilorn's.

Cal boils over. He stays planted beside the door, too angry. So angry he's almost out of control. Decades of monitoring his own reactions has his legs pegged to place waiting for his mind to catch up with what he feels. To think before he acts.

Lips smacking together. Wet, colliding, slurping lips and tongues clicking against the roof of their mouths. Restraint, who needs restraint?

"What the hell?" he rages as he pushes the door open.

Kilorn and Mare spring apart, yelping, pawing at their faces and tucking their hands behind their backs. Kilorn holds an arm up to protect his face from the inferno threatening to singe him. Mare squints her eyes together and flinches.

"What's your problem?" Kilorn shouts, stepping behind Mare.

Cal snorts an angry laugh at the cowardice, hiding behind Mare isn't going to save him.

"Good grief, Cal, calm down. Take one," Mare snaps, her voice hushed. She extends her hand. "I swear, if I knew you were there I'd offered it already."

Cal looks between the guilty face of Kilorn and the dismissive, perplexed expression Mare holds while extending the bowl towards him. It takes energy, more energy that he's ever needed, to drop his eyes to her hand.

"What? Don't you like berries? Quick, take a few before Farley sees," Mare urges.

"Berries? What… what?" Cal stammers, his finger tips grazing the nubby lumps of juice-filled nodules.

"Quick, before Farley sees," Kilorn echos her warning.

Cal looks back at Kilorn, at Mare, at the bowl. He chills himself to room temperature and thumbs a berry between his fingers.

"Farley?" He looks behind them, down the corridor, turns a full three-hundred and sixty degrees looking.

"Cravings man, she's been hording bowl after bowl. You would not believe what it took to get these." Kilorn takes another three or four in his hand and pops another in the mouth.

"If you didn't know about the berries, what did you think we were doing?" Mare challenges, slurping and smacking her lips to hold in the juice.

"Uh, nothing… I just heard whispering… I thought… um… spies. Or something," Cal swallows the tangy mush and swirls the small seeds against the roof of his mouth.


	48. It's a Drunken Miracle

The cherry wine tang flitted through her taste buds only when mixed with oxygen. Mare sat with her mouth open sucking in the cold air and letting the burst of flavor crowd out her worries. Deep into her second glass, she had carried the bottle out with her and wrapped the wool blanket around her shoulders. The swing had been hung on the long porch by the previous owners - a silver family long gone. It wasn't hard to imagine a couple rocking side by side watching the storms roll over the flat fields that made up their estate.

The skewed movement, her weight too much to one side to be even, dug into her thoughts and brought about a vast number of imaginings. Cal would have been restless after a while, but he would have sat with her and cracked jokes enjoying the view. Three months and still a pang. She sucked in another mouthful and carefully held the liquid around her tongue while she breathed in a gust of cherry fumes.

His body crashed into the swing with all the force of his exhaustion. Limbs limply hung at his side and his legs drug on the deck boards. Mare's head lolled to the side to cast judging eyes at his intrusion. He looked back with a mirrored expression that forbid her from questions.

Kilorn had always been on the starving side of thin, but the pace of the recent months carved an especially deep crevice around his collarbone. But he owed a bit to the work as well. Fishing had broadened his shoulders and strengthened his back, but the guard had cut the gaps between his muscles and popped his forearms into brawny, capable forms. She watched the tendons on the back of his hand pull his fingers into a fist around the bottle and the pockets of muscles articulate it to his lips then turned back to admire the dark clouds bringing snow into the valley.

He shivered hard enough to shake the swing. Mare edged closer to him and lifted the blanket over the both of them. The alcohol seeped into her, warming her cheeks and pulling the stiffness out of her back. She leaned into his shoulder until he adjusted so his arm was around her and her head pressed into him.

"For warmth," she said, another mouthful of wine following her words.

"Obviously," he smirked, raising the bottle.

Tucked so intimately into his side, the smell of boy, and earnest sweat mingling with poor judgement, she felt a throb course down through her core and into her groin. She sucked in an annoyed breath and shuddered the horrible aching shudder that came with physiological desire. Three months since Cal went his own way. Three months since she'd last traversed the hallowed grounds of pleasure. She wondered if tonight would be the night she'd finally fumble her way to an orgasm or if she'd break down crying like the last time she attempted.

"Cold?" he pulled the blanket tight around her side blocking the subtle draft.

"Nope."

"You're shivering."

"Other reasons."

"Ah yeah, the whole repulsive best-friend thing." It came out on both sides of the fence: teasing and yet hurt.

"You've moved light years beyond my hideous face." She drank again.

"Hideous face, but damn that ass." Now he was teasing, clear and with a chuckle.

"Glad I still got it," she murmured. Then a horrible idea struck her. "When was the last time you got laid?"

Kilorn groaned in the back of his throat and shifted uncomfortable next to her.

"Come on, it couldn't have been in the Stilts…" Another uncomfortable shift. "Not since we left home? Not since Chadia Canmore?"

"God no, tons since Chadia. More than you'd think, obviously." Kilorn's voice scolded her. "I do just fine, thank you."

"Oh do tell. I'm dying for the gossip." What she was dying for was something other than Cal to think about later that night.

As perverted as it was, she'd seen Kilorn near enough to naked so many times that she could easily mold his body into erotic shapes but she just needed some other face to put with him. Maybe then she could manage to get through to a release. God, she was a pervert.

"Why you even care? I mean, I don't wanna know who's boots you're knocking."

"No ones. That's the problem," she grumbled, drowning her words.

"Do you want to?"

She flushed red and hot and her thoughts spun out of her mouth before reason could reel them back in, "Would it really be so bad if we did? I mean it's remarkable that we never did. And really, it's sort of like we should, you know? Because we should have when we were younger and who knows the next time we'll have the chance with so many rooms with doors. I bet we could totally hold it together. You know, if you wanted to," she added the last part with a shrug to make up for the rest that came spewing out of her mouth.

Kilorn's jaw hung open. She pried the bottle out of his hand and took a really long drink. The liquid sloshed around the bottom, almost gone. Kilorn finished it off and drew an equally long breath.

"Sorry… sort of made it weird, didn't I."

"Yes."

"Yes? Yes, what?"

"I want to. Do you want to?"

"Library?" Mare had seen him napping on a little sofa with a book open across his lap earlier. She assumed that was as good a claim on a room as there could be. She stood and stiffly made her way back inside and through the kitchen door.

.

It felt stiff to Mare, anyways, but to Farley–hunched over maps with Ada in the kitchen–it was anything but a straight line. Mare jostled off the table and into the beauro before almost missing the corner. They heard her fall when she missed the step on the stairwell. They could scarcely turn back to each other to speculate before Kilorn came in with a purpose, grabbed a small bottle of wine, and shot up the stairs.

"Uh, Farley?" Ada asked, watching after the pair.

"Just stuff your ears with cotton and pray for the best." Farley tapped the map and set a salt shaker where the scouts had reported the Lakeland army.

"Didn't think you prayed." Ada hunched back over the report, absorbing each line.

"Well, we just watched hell freezing over, seems like a fair time to start."

.

Mare had just enough time to herself in the claustrophobic room with books piled high and overflowing the shelves. She ran through the impulse over and over and the history–he'd been in love with her. She understood the cruelty of offering him this without the rest, but at the same time, that had been over a year prior and per his own admission, he'd been with other people since his confession. What was the big deal? Didn't she once imagine her kids with green eyes and a thirst for the river?

Kilorn shut the door and tiptoed behind her, his hands on her upper arms, he shook from the anticipation, the nervousness, the eager thump of blood pooling in response. Before she could make up her mind into a different decision, he slid his lower lip against the back of her neck. Mare straightened and gasped. His lips were like an eraser on a chalkboard, wiping away her moments of doubt and leaving a residue that still echoed.

She let him lift her shirt. She examined the new scar on his side. She tasted his lips and found the muted remnants of their intoxication. She let the green eyes hold her steady and his nimble fingers unlace her boots. Best was the musical laugh so familiar and breathy when she struggled with his boots and fell backwards on the reading couch. Finally to their drawers, she had the smallest thought, an inkling by the dictionary, that she'd have the most horrible headache in the morning. And then it was gone under the heat of his skin and the pink on his cheeks.

The bones of his hips pressed into her thighs, parting her and playing with her at the same time. He was the angles that Cal was not–then she silenced that thought. He was the man that would never ever leave her. The one she could trust. The only one who never really betrayed her. And who knew how magic his hands could be?

All regrets would hold until morning pushed out of place by the tactile tussling of nerves desperately in need of stimulation. He worked her, she gripped him. He kissed her lips. She worried a bruise into his neck. He grabbed her breast. She moaned out encouragements. Slip. Slide. Grind. Grunting pleasure of two people that knew what they wanted and how to get it and somehow they matched move for move. She shuddered. He spilled on her stomach and they laughed out of breath at the recklessness of it. And then they drank a quarter of the bottle; touched each other in ways they'd only ever dreamed until neither was dreaming. Both slept until dawn under the scratchy wool blanket.

And both rose with squinting eyes and uneasy laughter. Kilorn ached for the moment she'd push him away and begin banishing their one night to memory. But she stayed and held him, forced him to stay. She fought the sun's intruding message as long as she could. And once they dressed and joined the others in the kitchen, she didn't make any secret of what had gone on between them. He stayed pink, warm, and fuzzy with her hand on his arm and her fingers sliding between his.


	49. Prompt - What they told me

Tumblr prompt: "You're making me think that what they told me about you was right." -for Ptolewren

TW: blood, violence, death…

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The natural rhythms punctuated the world around her usually in a chorus and sometimes a cacophony. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the sparrows diving low to the ground, the lilting li-li-li-li of the old dog steadily trotting through the hallway. Every beat of every heart pulsed against her skin in a unique harmony. The small things crescendo-ed together like the hum of a thousand horns blaring into the wind while the larger creatures - mostly the humans - pulsed in a predictably structured base-march.

Wren couldn't remember the last time she'd truly been alone. She needed fifty feet or more for the signs of life to fall below her senses even if she had to be inches away to use her special skills. Staring up at the ceiling supposedly alone, she could feel someone walking in the rooms beneath her, wandering the hallway above her, rushing through the courtyard below her window. She could count the mice in the wall and the crows that crowded on the gutters. But none of that was unusual enough to catch her attention.

The sudden darting beat quirked her attention. The heart slammed rapid and stilted and then pulsed once… waited… twice… and then….then…. it went missing. The harmony of the house unsettled in a moment of panic and unwilling surrender to an unwanted end. Wren bolted from her room and raced down the hall holding onto the sensation that forced her feet down the stairs to the room below hers. She predicted heart attack, stroke, a sudden fall, any number of accidents or defects. If she got there soon enough, she could revive them. She could bring them back.

She checked behind the tables and the sofa in the library, but no one was in the room. She cursed and flew down to the next door, Ptolemus's private study. She could feel three hearts in the room, more than when she started her race through the estate. She hoped they were rendering aid well enough to keep the blood from pooling, avoiding oxygen deprivation in the brain. She stumbled through the door and leapt towards Ptolemus.

"I'm here. Give way!" She shouted.

Ptolemus dragged a silver blade across the neck of a fighting, small girl.

Wren screamed, gripped the girl and followed her body to the floor. She felt the tear the razor-sharp edge had slit through the trachea. She could even sense the blood pumping down into the lungs. She knitted the airway back together, the blood gushed red over her hands. She tried to seal the artery, the girl's hands thrashed and scratched her arms. The girl's eyes had dilated into black disks. Her tongue swirled in the blood, red-pink collected between every tooth.

Before Wren had it, before she could cinch the artery back in place, Ptolemus had her hands to her sides and her body in his arms. Wren kicked and thrashed and screamed a dozen frequencies all buried together in a hideous pitch.

"Let me help! Let me help!" She whimpered as the heart stopped and the girl twitched next to the other body.

Ptolemus release her. She landed back on the girl. Wren searched for the signs of life. Heart beat: gone. Brain clicks: gone. Even the high frequency of the involuntary actions of the body had ceased.

Blood bubbled out of the girl's neck as the body relaxed and flattened with gravity. Wren could hear only two heart beats outside of her own. Ptolemus: fast and humming–a musky adrenaline coated smell wafted towards her, one she knew came with his pleasure. And Oliver - Ptolemus's second-in-arms, an oblivion from the House Lorelan, probably more spy for Annabel than friend. Oliver's heart didn't settle as fast as Ptolemus and his entire body shook saturated with chaos and confusion and not a trace of joy.

"What did you do?" Wren asked, twirling on Ptolemus.

"Dealt with the problem." Ptolemus smiled.

He stooped. She though he might comfort her, eye level on one knee. But instead, he looked down at her skirt - red and stained - picked up the edge and wiped his knife.

"Oliver, get some of the servants to help bury these two. Make sure they know this is what happens when people snoop."

He only looked away from her to press Oliver into motion.

When he stood, he sheathed the knife into a pocket on his pants. Then fixed his hands on his hips and looked at the bodies, at her.

She looked back and shied away from the wide, frightened eyes of the servant girl and glanced at the man next to her. His white hair had streaks of blood through it, but she couldn't see his face through the slashes and the blood. Ptolemus had swiftly disfigured him before taking his life. She forced herself to look closer-the man frothed at the mouth, clear evidence of a poison pill.

"Don't just sit there wallowing in the filth," Ptolemus said. She came to shaky feet and faced him. His scent was shifting from the adrenaline coating to an endorphin rush - a mixture of pheromones that spoke of a sudden euphoria and relaxation. She had her own rushing sensations: sickness, disgust, realization. Her own panic–he was insane.

"What? Don't tell me you're gonna cry over a little blood. I thought you were a healer." Ptolemus teased, grinning.

"You… you… cut his face."

"And?" She gaped at him. He looked her over and then glanced down. "Careful, you're dripping. Don't get that on the hallway rug."

Blood was running down her hem and splattering the floor beneath her feet. The queasiness overtook her.

"You really aren't good with blood, are you?"

"It's not the blood." She clutched her stomach.

Oliver returned with two petrified servants. Ptolemus snapped his fingers and pointed. The man shrieked in recognition - his daughter? His brother? His friend? Maybe he wasn't good with blood and brutality.

"Come now, Wren, what's got you so worked up?"

Death to traitors seemed like an okay policy - one that she at least understood. She even could cope with the necessity of coercion and pain as a tool for information. But she could not believe the pleasure she smelled on him, that she could not reconcile.

"You're making me think that what they told me about you was right." She barely got one foot in front of the other on her way out the door. His hand reached for her elbow, but she jerked away.


	50. Prompt - Reconciliation

Tumblr Prompt: when one stops the kiss to whisper "I'm sorry, are you sure you-" and they answer by kissing them more. (Pre-War Storm release)

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The second cook staff had moved on to the next camp earlier in the day. Company 231 received their orders to proceed to the mess earlier, at 11:30. Mare hated the idea of eating with the rest of the camp. They had shared the 1:00 mess with just four other companies and after the first few days, they all stopped staring at her. Now she had seventeen companies of craning necks to look forward to. As if that weren't bad enough, it also meant being forced into the same space as Cal and the many silver companies the Guard avoided.

Mare had only seen Cal a few times in passing since her company arrived at the camp. Every time a dozen faces waited for a brutal emotional response as entertainment. But as far as she knew, Cal didn't even know she was assigned to Company 231 or where they had been bunked in the tent city. The future king of Norta likely didn't care. Of course, she preferred to pretend that the months since their break-up had stoppered the bleeding and even started the healing.

With confidence faked on her stoic face, Mare mustered her best act infront of all those waiting for her response. Cal Calore–Tiberius Calore–would have no effect on her. The unfamiliar faces behind the pots nervously glanced at her and then to the departing line of Silver soldiers in front of her. She inferred Cal's triangulated position by how those eyes followed him through the tables behind her.

Mare and Kilorn clambered onto wooden crates that lined the area, the only seats left for their almost too-late-for-food company. And even though she tried not to, her eyes found Cal taking his seat among the soldiers. The fates seemed to cruelly enjoy the potential as much as the on-lookers. Cal and his silvers sat two tables away from Mare on the crates. Once spotted, Mare willed her eyes to stay on her bowl of stew, but they broke up and out again and again. Surely, it didn't hurt to look, the lack of pain was a sure sign she had gotten over him.

Cal seemed to be dressing-down one of the soldiers a few seats down and across from him. His eyes narrowed and he pointed at the man with his spoon punctuating his words. The man, adjusted the light armor that hung on his shoulders and nodded before begining his meal. Mare craved to hear Cal's authoritative tenner and exactly how he managed his men, kept them in line but never crossed to cause them to become disheartened or disloyal. She wondered if he and Farley had similar approaches, if that was why they'd maintained an easy friendship despite what he'd done to her before—.

Mare's focus shifted to Kilorn for a moment as he told a new joke to those closest to them. She missed the start and when she figured she was too lost to catch up, she turned back to observing Cal–his head snapping away from her and back to the table. She flushed, knowing he'd caught her, and she'd caught him, and that shouldn't have felt as warm and tingly as it did. Rather than rip her eyes away, she would keep her's on his if only to further prove how little sway he had on her.

After months underground eating what ever Kilorn and Ferrah brought back, Mare had thought the pickiness had been crushed out of them. However, Cal–armor clad and between his soldiers–crinkled his nose and looked at the red-sauce stew then at the door. He pushed back from the table and glanced side to side, giving up his plan when he caught Mare's eye. He looked back to the bowl and tentatively dipped just the tip bringing a small drop of liquid to his tongue. He looked almost green. As he rose, looking directly at her, he seemed to be apologizing before taking his ration of bread and leaving. The bowl was quickly divided among those at the table, nothing went to waste in the mess.

Mare's irritation flared when that first though–whether he could sustain on bread alone–came through her mind. She shouldn't care if Cal ate or not. And he certainly shouldn't care if she saw him turning his nose up at perfectly good food. Caring what each other thought had been abandoned, first by him and then by her. And yet, Mare left her own slices of bread untouched. And then she wrapped them in paper.

When everyone in the camp was eating, the smallest noise carried across the camp. She heard the thumping of heavy blows in the training quads. The closer she came, the more the heavy breathing and the grunts of effort tugged at her. Clutching the bread she moved around the last row of tents, past the collections of practice weapons, and into full view of the static punching dummies staked into the soil.

"You didn't eat," Mare called to Cal. He paused in mid punch and turned slowly to face her.

"Not hungry," he dismissed.

Cal practiced in his full-combat gear–adding a helmet and shin guards since he made his retreat from the mess. Though he didn't wear the same types of armor plating as the reds, the weight of it still made a difference in his body mechanics. Though, as Mare examined it, the seams overlapped where they used to meet flush. The straps of the buckles hung out long and slightly unwieldy, pulled as tight as their length allowed.

"What happened to your armor?"

Cal looked down, touching it with his hands, looking for the problem.

"No, your armor. That set doesn't fit you."

"It is my armor. And it fits fine." Though he sounded definitive in how he said it, the way he twisted it easily on his frame underlined her concern. Regardless of what he did or didn't think, his armor sagged a size or two too big.

Mare stepped towards him, a more immediate assessment of his health edging past her desire for space. She looked around his eyes–dark, bruise-like shadows. She tilted her head and saw the gap between his jaw and his ear and his neck– a pronounced hallow. And the well between his collarbones–it collected his sweat in a deep indentation.

"Are you sick?"

Cal tipped his head down, avoided her eyes, looked at his bruised and bleeding knuckles.

Mare repeated, "Tiberius, are you sick? Are you okay? Should I get a healer?"

"I'm not sick," he spat. Cal's hair obscured his face. He started to turn and to move towards the tents.

"Are you sure? Ti–" he moved faster. Mare insisted on a response, walking behind him. "Are you okay?"

He gave her no answer, so she followed doing everything short of touching him until he lead her though the doorway into a small, unremarkable tent. Then he turned on her, wheeled fast enough that she stepped back and charges sizzled under her skin.

"No, Mare, I'm not okay. And I haven't been okay since I screwed this all up. And I'm even less okay now that you're three hundred feet away every night hating my guts." Irritation gave way to regret, his eyes closing slowly and his chest rising with a deep inhalation that never seemed to end.

Mare's jaw twitched open, moved like it would speak of it's own accord, and then shut. Her brain fizzled and twitched while she let the sparks settle back inside her.

"Sorry. Not fair. Thank you for your concern. I'm okay." Cal contradicted and then removed himself to the corner, behind his cot, to start unfastening the buckles on his armor. Sweat made his undershirt cling to him and all his unnatural angles.

Looking for hope or consolation–maybe hope of a consolation–Mare swallowed and then asked, "Do you regret it?"

Cal carefully aligned the plates with the rack, ensuring proper drying. He fidgeted, avoiding her.

"Never mind." Mare started backing out.

"I have so many things to regret, but yeah, this… that… that is pretty near the top." His voice shook.

Cal straightened, his shoulders relaxed, and his fists flexed a few times until they unfolded. He sighed, loud, and then turned as if he was looking for nothing more than a missing sock on the floor. Then he startled, seeing her still standing there. Mare realized that he thought she'd left, that he was alone, possibly since she'd last spoke.

"Do you mean it?" Mare edged closer.

Cal nodded, slowly, sadly, his fists bawling back up and his shoulders rising. Her body moved in hesitant steps while his face tightened and his eyes welled. She hunted his features for deception, for lies, for another betrayal. The first tear sliding down his cheek seemed to wash his feet out from under him. Cal fell to his knees in front of her. Mare's hands ran through his sweat slicked hair, letting him press his face into her stomach, feeling his hands on her legs.

Then she fell, meeting him on the ground and as close to face-to-face that his height allowed. Her hands slid down his face and her lips tasted his lips, the salt of sweat melding with the wood-burnt character of his lips.

Cal pulled back, laughing and pulling at his soaked, stinking shirt, "I'm sorry, are you sure–"


	51. Prompt - A Muddy Run

Tumblr prompt: height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes (marecal)

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Staying fit for the purpose of being fit didn't really come naturally to Mare. She'd honed her athleticism in sprints down alleys and frantic scrambles away from guards. Running because she had no other reason to run ranked right next to dish washing, a chore she put off until unavoidable. Usually, Cal dragged her yawning and stretching from her bed. But since the remainder of Command arrived, Cal had been sequestered away planning the next move to reclaim the country from Maven. So she slept in, rested, grew lazier by the day.

If she had to put money on an alternate trainer, Mare would have bet on Kilorn. He made an appearance at the Barrow house most days and usually sniped at her as she ate breakfast at lunch with uncombed, wild hair. But Kilorn never had the stomach for mindless running either. Instead, Gisa took up the mantle and prodded Mare from her slumbers early in the morning.

"Mare get up. Put these on."

Mare rubbed her eyes and batted away the garments. But Gisa persisted and coaxed her to sitting.

"What are these for? Is Cal here?" Mare brightened at the prospect.

"No, he's not." Mare drooped and nearly rolled back under the covers. "I wanna learn how to run."

"One foot in front of the other, Gee," Mare yawned.

"No, there's more to it than that. There has to be. And I want you to show me."

"Show you how to run? There's seriously no mystery."

"Just, come on, please?" Gisa rarely used that tone nor that word with Mare. For the sake of removing the whine from her sister's voice, Mare got up and dressed and pulled on her shoes.

Gisa jumped up and down and stretched her legs like she'd seen so many times before. Mare cocked her head from side to side and loosened her shoulders with some arm flaps, but left the stretching for later.

"Don't you stretch?"

"No, not yet."

"I'm not supposed to stretch? But I already stretched. Is that bad?" Gisa said, wide eyed.

"No it's fine. I just find that stretching after running for a bit sort of feels better, so I wait."

"Oh, okay. So I didn't hurt anything?"

"Nope. Now, come on, one foot in front of the other." Mare started their pace as she would normally but found even her lungs unable to keep up with her expectations.

Gisa struggled more. She couldn't quite get a rhythm with her breathing and she had to stop every few minutes to walk, her side stitching her into wincing coughing fits.

Mare pretended she didn't need the rest, but she kept one eye on her sister begging for the next one. They proceeded through the compound over roads and along parked transports and out along the fence. Mare pushed them past the grove of trees, embarrassment a useful tool in pressing on.

Out by the air jets, a river of water trickled in a wide swath from where an early morning crew washed a giant plane. Gisa proceeded on tip-toes, carefully hopping from one dry sand bar to a rock and seeking the next option. Mare, a big sister through and through, jumped square in the mud beside her. Dirt flicked up all over Gisa's legs and onto her face.

"Mare!" Gisa admonished, her hand going straight to the bun on the top of her head and then to the wet legs of her shorts. Mare jumped again. "Stop it!" She shrieked.

"Come on Gee, lighten up." Mare jumped a third time then swung her leg up throwing clods of soil into the air.

Gisa's lips pinched together, her eyebrow furrowed. Mare hadn't seen her so mad in a while. Mare prepared to jump again. Mid-air, Gisa slammed her hard and knocked her sideways and to the ground. Mare splashed a wave of brown water up and all over her sister, then threw a handful for good measure.

Gisa froze, feeling the cold mud dripping down her face, and then started to laugh. She laughed a bell-like warble that came from deep inside her air-starved lungs. The lack of oxygen pushed her to her knees along side her sister. They both laughed, together. When they finally had their laughter under control, they didn't have the energy for the run back. As they walked, Gisa talked about the blanket she had planned for Clara and Mare smiled at how their divisions seemed forgotten in the Stilts.

Cal sat outside the Barrow home his elbows on his knees and his right cheek propped on his fist. He played with the fire on the fingertips of his left hand willing it to make black smoke and attempting to make shapes with his movements. Mare's smile broadened. Gisa slipped past them and into the house.

Mare moved in for a kiss as Cal stood.

"Whoa, no, no loving for your mud-monster." Cal backed away from her, dancing on his feet.

"What? It's just some dirt. I'll be careful." Mare followed him, hands outstretched.

"Nuh-uh," Cal said. He backed away and then tried to put his hand on her head to hold her off. "Keep off, swamp-thing."

"Who's afraid of a little mud, a little mud, a little mud?" Mare sang.

She backed up the steps to the front door and pushed in. He followed, the playfulness overriding his unease around her father.

"If I'm fast, I can beat Gee into the shower," Mare stepped up two steps. Cal came along the banister, his hand sliding up the wood until it just touched hers. "Kiss for luck?"

"I guess, for luck." He confirmed, tipping up on his toes to touch his lips to hers.

Mare's mud-caked fingers pressed hard onto his cheek and down his neck before he could pull back, protesting.


	52. Prompt - Don't give me space...

Tumblr prompt: "Don't give me space. That's the last thing I want with you." -for Evane (Pre-War Storm release)

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"Are you… okay?" Elaine spoke while she slipped through the shadows into Eveangeline's room. With her characteristic ease, she eased down on the edge of the mattress before becoming fully visible in the dim lighting.

Evangeline groaned in a weird monotonous tone that raised the hairs on the back of Elaine's neck. Her hand snapped down to grip Evangeline's limp arm.

"You have a stroke?"

Another groan and then, finally an answer, "Can you just kill me?" Evangeline rolled over, dramatically pressing her face into the pillows and screaming into the stuffing.

"You aren't going to marry him."

"Tell my parent that."

"I did. And I'll do it again, and again, and again."

"You did?"

"And I told him." Elaine laid her cheek on her girlfriend's back and pulled her legs up on the bed.

"What did he say?"

"Mostly a bunch of stammering. Looked like he'd been crying. I don't think he's anymore thrilled by this than you are."

"Cal cried? Why? Am I that bad?" Evangeline made the final flop back onto her back.

Elaine situated her head on her shoulder joint and squeezed her arm across Evangeline's middle. "He's got it bad for that… for Mare."

"I've never wanted to be one of them more than I do right now."

Elaine sat up on her elbow. "Excuse me? You want to be a red? Weak, powerless?"

"At least when they love someone, they can be with them."

"You won't marry him," Elaine insisted. Evangeline softly huffed and wiggled uncomfortably. "You wont."

"You married Ptolemus."

"To stay with you! Marrying Cal is a one way ticket to Archeon. Assuming they even win this damn war. And if they don't, you have a target on your head."

"And so do you. If they lose, Maven's coming or the Rift."

"Yeah, but if you don't marry Cal, you'll be here with me when they come. And we will give them a hell of a fight."

Evangeline mustered a similar grunt to the start of their conversation.

"Fine, I'll go find a book." Elaine hoisted her self up to sitting only to be pulled back down, almost strangled in Evangeline's hold.

"No, don't."

"It seems like you need some space, some time to think."

"Don't give me space, that's the last thing I want from you. If you so much as step outside that door, I don't know if I'll have the strength to say no."

Elaine wrapped her arms around Evangeline and held her through a long, sleepless night.


	53. Prompt - Can you just kiss me?

Tumblr prompt: "can you just kiss me? one last time? that's all i ask."- for wren and ptolemus of red queen prompt (Pre-War Storm release)

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"Why do you keep insisting on packing that bag?" Evangeline slouched in the doorway, Wren continued to stuff sweaters and shoes and other effects into the small satchel. "What is it this time? You know you're too far along–"

"It's for the baby. It's for him." Wren circled the small bump with her hand and only built up her resolve.

"He? Hmm, well he will need his father, his family. So everything he needs is right here."

"Look, I might have let you bully me into keeping him, but this is not your child. So get out of my way."

"It's Toly's. Should I go get him for an opinion?"

"Why so he can slit my throat, too? Go ahead, have my blood on your hands. Call him." Wren challenged.

Evangeline changed tack. "Well, at least tell me why. If I'm moved, I could send him on a goose chase."

"Did you know he likes to kill people?"

"Killing people is part of war. It's part of protecting this country. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that sometimes people die. I know that sometimes people I know strike the blow. But he likes it. He might even love it. He thirsts for it."

"You're scolding a cat for playing with mice."

"No, I can forgive a cat that acts like other cats. I don't think I can forgive a cat that hides among people. He's a monster."

"And you want to bring that wrath down on yourself?"

"So long as he never touches, never sees, never slips his… infirmity into my son, let him hunt." Wren stepped towards the door. Evangeline straightened and blocked. Wren prepared to twist Evangeline's veins into knots, but stopped when she turned sideways, letting her pass.

"He's in the kitchen playing slap and tickle with Rhoda. I doubt he'd care for even a parting kiss."

Whether Evangeline was being spiteful or true, Wren only halted a moment to consider. The sting of betrayal only made her feet fly faster from the hard rock of the palace halls.


	54. Prompt - Lucas Samos

They do their best to stand straight as soldiers. They mime the posture, they hold so perfectly still they are obviously recruits. First-off, none of them know for certain how to hold their hands. Some cast their fingers straight down, others curl them in fists. In less than a week, they'll all be too tired to do more than just hold their hands relaxed at their sides, unlock their knees, and breath evenly under their uniforms. For now, every glance or barked order makes them jump. There's too much inside of them. Too much fear. Too much hope. Too much excitement. So many questions.

Who will kill first? Who will be killed? Who will cause an accident? Friendly fire? Missed assignment?

One glance to the captain and I know she's making the same wagers as I am. Every three months, the high houses and common silvers alike send a few of their children to become heroes. Leaders. To become like me, to be like General McCathos, or the Panther. To prowl around the Lakelands and finally end the war. They send them to be the bringers of glory where no glory has ever been found.

I killed my first man in my sixteenth week. He was tall, small for a Strongarm, and light on his feet. He came to the rear of the camp and would have crushed me. I laid him out with a steal stake through his neck. I had been aiming for his heart, but I missed. I told my commanding officer I didn't want him to scream. They gave me my first medal for an accident. I served the rest of my guard shift stinking of blood, feeling the faint iron within it. I did not feel any glory.

Who will go home in a box? Who will go home a ghost? Who isn't human enough to be haunted? The questions, the statistics wear me out.

Pacing up one line and back down another, we examine the recruits. I look for their uniform to be in standard, pristine position. No wrinkles. No stains. Collars buttoned and name tags straight. I stop and correct the alignment of a shirt. The recruit holds her breath the entire time. Her jaw quivers. She might be frightened enough to have a chance or just enough to freeze. I finish. I move on.

If I didn't see the insignia, I wouldn't have been able to pick the prince out of the new recruits, but he wears the black crown on his left shoulder. I knew he would come soon, eventually, just not now. We're told to treat him the same, but that splash of black means differently. We're to keep him alive, keep him safe, let him collect stories he can tell until he's grey in the temples. Every King needs stories about war, none of them have ever seen a real fight, just a play for their stories.

Silvers, get sent when our families please. Fifteen for Prince Tiberias, I doubt he's ever had to shave. I see others in the row that must be younger than thirteen. None as young as I was when Uncle Volo sent me. Up to a quarter might die in the next six months because there's no truly safe place. Those that survive, those from the high houses, they'll go home with their stories. The rest, they'll likely stick out a full five years for their stipend. A stipend gets a good marriage, some property, a business. None of that is glory.

"Thoughts, Samos?" Crevling asks when we meet at the front of the formations.

"Third row, third from the end, box for sure," I sigh. She gives me her wager. And then training commences. They'll be in the trenches in six weeks.

.

I write the letters home. If we don't know what happened, we use a form letter, like the reds. They lose too many for specifics. But when I can, for my soldiers, I try my best to give their families what I would want if I had a child lost in this war. Today, I write the first letter for the latest recruits.

_._

_Dear Mrs. Morrits,_

_I am truly sorry to inform you of the death of Julia Morrits. She fell during combat at the front lines defending Norta against an aggressive and formidable enemy. Her sacrifice is now your burden and for that I am sincerely sorry. Julia died as she directed a red unit's advance across the Choke. Her planning and preparation made this an otherwise successful push. She did not suffer and went quickly, I hope these small details can bring you some amount of peace._

_Regretfully yours,_

_Captain, Lucas Samos_

_._

"You baby them," Crevling yawns and lurches up from our bed.

"They just lost a daughter." We have this discussion with every first death.

Julia is just another in a long line of deaths and she won't be the last. She was fifteen years old from a common silver family. I try not to think what the stipend meant to them.

"They sent her to war. What did they expect?" Crevling pours us both a drink.

"Not a box."

"Then they don't understand war."

"No one understands this war. Well, except the reds. Sometimes I think they're the only ones who do."

To this, she always agrees. I drink. She drinks. She lets me finish my paperwork in silence. Then she kneads my shoulders and pulls me to bed. She is the only thing that I don't hate about my life.

.

I will not be known as the captain that got the prince killed.

Shit-for-brains Calore has sunk waste deep in shit before setting off a flare. The Lakelanders are careening across the plain with arrows and missals. They have guns drawn and if it weren't for the reds shielding us with numbers, I know the entire company would be dead. But instead of retreating, we are saving the future king of Norta.

The ground is unstable. I can't form a solid base to pull him up by his armor. He panics, lashing out, shoving at the weight on his shoulders, shedding his weapons and working on the buckles to rid himself of the only thing he has that will let me help him: iron plates.

"Push the water! Call a Telkie!" I shout at the Nymph beside me.

She draws the water away from the prince but not faster than the flood being pushed from the north. The water rises, but the mud also loosens. Stoneskins take position to block the aerial assault. A Telkie scrambles forward and strains to lift Tiberias above the rising waters. A rope circles him and pulls him in as we lose a good man to the current. The half-drowned prince is a brown ball of mud when he comes to the high ground.

He has a story to tell, I wonder if he'll remember the three hundred reds he lost under his command. Or the fifty or more that survived by deserting their posts. They'll be executed for their lack of bravery. What will Prince Tiberias say when he recounts the day he almost died in a Lakeland flood?

.

Crevling stares at her letter, stunned. Her request to discharge at five years has been granted. She's going home with her stipend. She hesitates. I won't let her stay. There is no longer anything about this war that I don't hate.

.

My request to Uncle Volo to serve the Rift has been denied. I bring too much honor to the family by serving so long and so valiantly. Politics I'll never understand. Family spats are even worse.

.

The Prince struggles with his body count. I teeter between admiration and disgust. He shouldn't be so soft. He shouldn't be so effected. He has hand written every condolence letter for the reds he lost. I help him seal the envelopes. We talk about expectations, and family duty. He talks about luxuries we both don't have like baths and choices. If he makes it to the throne, perhaps he'll end this war. If I live to see it, I would like very much for that to be true.

.

"When was the last time you were home?" Beamish asks.

"Six months," Cal admits, adding quickly, "Not very long ago." To be polite, he turns to her and asks, "You?"

"Oh, a few years. I got my three-year-leave coming, though," she smiles.

"Well, I hope the days pass quickly," Cal covers his pity well enough that Beamish doesn't notice. She's still a little start-struck to be escorting the prince. He looks away from her, back to me, seeking a way out of the awkwardness he feels. "You, Samos? When was the last time you saw home?"

"Five years, my lord," I bow as I address him, the way I was trained as a child. It feels more natural than the saluting and soldierly requirements. I'm not certain which protocol applies, but he nods and smiles more broadly. If I've messed up, he doesn't care.

In the last five years since I left the front lines, I have cycled into and out of the choke seventeen times. Each time brought dread and danger, death, and killing. But somehow, I feared it less than the prospect of going to the Rift. Five years ago, I took leave to sit at my grandfather's deathbed as he passed over my father and my line to bring my uncle Volo into power.

I neither wanted the responsibility, nor the drudgery of keeping the Rift running. But it was a slight against my father and his delicate son. I had ten years in the trenches, fifteen at war by then. And still the bodies I put into the ground weren't enough because they were in the name of Norta, not for pride. The rest of the house seems defectively brutal. Each battle that comes to a close makes me wonder if they're the way they are because they've never spent more than a week at war.

My lack of favor with Volo could land me back on the front despite Cal's best attempts. The prince has penned my recommendation to the Palace Guard. A slower pace, less death, less trouble than the front. But Volo can command me to the Rift, call me to serve in my birthright as a support to the house. A decade more and then I can retire to the countryside to one of the Samos estates outside the Rift. Someplace where I wouldn't have to beat the servants or starve taxes out of the people to survive. Some place I can pretend not to be a Samos.

Cal tries to insist we ride with him inside the transport, but it breaks protocol, which he also must know. While he sits alone inside, Beamish and I ride on the top, rifles ready, scanning the horizon.

"What are you gonna do now that you're not a soldier?" Beamish asks.

"I… I… don't know."

"You don't know?" she chuckles. "Tell you what, if I was getting off the front line, I would take a bath every night with bubbles and a glass of wine. And chocolate! I would get fat on chocolate."

"There isn't enough chocolate in the world to make you fat," I snark at her. It's not the first time I've teased her for her thinness.

"But can you imagine the fun of trying?"

"I'll give it a shot and send you a letter."

"Better send me some of that damn chocolate, captain."

Beamish doesn't come from a high house. She's enlisted because her parents died and no one could take her in. Since Crevling left, she's been a light in the gloom. She'll brighten someone else's days now that I'm gone. I hope I meet more like her at the Palace.

Hope. What a funny feeling after all these years.

.

"Captain Samos, welcome to the Palace Guard."

I snap to attention and salute when I see General McCanthos. She salutes back.

"At ease, sir. I am not your commanding officer here, I was just stopping in to share the progress on the last munitions order." When she leaves, I'm alone with the smug faces of play soldiers.

The Palace Guards have never been tested. I am the only one that's served the front. It takes less than a day for me to trace them all to the high houses, mostly the leading family lines. In that way, I fit in, but in all others, I am alone. This place is not my family and I miss my soldiers. Who knew I could miss something about the front?

.

"Come on Lucas," Cal drawls, drunk and swaying down the hall.

"I'm on duty, my lord," I attempt to excuse myself. I can't help but hope he persists. It's fun when Cal is drunk and rambunctious – still so young and without too much responsibility.

"Cal! Not my lord. Cal!" he nearly slips on the first step. I steady him. "One game. Then I'll go to bed, I swear."

It's against protocol, and my better judgement, but I follow the Prince to his suite of rooms. Somehow, three others know to meet him in his chambers. I recognize the girl, she works in the gardens, a Greenwarden. Cal introduces her with a blush. The other two men work as administrators, an Oblivion and a Windweaver. They're older and eye me like an intruding father. I suppose I'm old enough to be one.

"No, no! Lucas is cool. He's totally cool. Aren't you Lucas?"

"I am intruding, my lord," I start to back out, but he grabs my arm.

"Sit. Please. Sit and play a round. It's no fun without four and Maven's up at the front," Cal encourages everyone to the table, bringing the deck out and starting to explain the game.

It's one I've played for over a decade in every trench I've ever made my home. If he wasn't drunk, I'd have taken half his money, as drunk as he is, I take everything he puts on the table. The others are uneasy at how fast I win, thought I'd wager they're trying to lose to be in Cal's graces. I lose a few hands to them, splitting Cal's money a little before he declares himself bankrupt and we are excused for the night.

The Greenwarden and I share a small smile as we pass in the hall the next day, but she's careful to hold the line that divides us-guard and guarded. Cal is hungover the entire day. We repeat this cadence when ever he comes home from the front. I even look forward to it. It almost feels like a friendship.


	55. Prompt - Stillness and Silence

**Anonymous request for: where Mare never dodge the letter opener and ended up dying?**

.

Dreading his brother's body, Cal marches in even steps up to the house his mother loved so much. Briefly, he imagines it a mausoleum, a place he'll visit to commune with the ghosts of his family. He doesn't know if he'll be able to stand living here again. Inside the foyer, he expects Mare to be dazed, waiting for him. Ready to take him to a body he asked her to make. She isn't there. His spine prickles with unease.

Cal cranes his neck around corners and holds still as a statue hoping for an echo of life to guide him. What little he hears comes through open windows from outside, or at least that's the impression he has.

Footsteps. Running footsteps. One set. Breathing to go with them. It quiets when the source goes through a doorway. Cal follows stepping past two bodies in the hallway–guards.

"Mare?" Kilorn calls, careening around one door and into the next. He's searching the rooms one by one, silver blood staining his sleeve, and gun out and ready. "Mare!" He looks in a confused circle getting his bearings in the hall before darting across to the ballroom.

"Kilorn?" Cal shouts, follows, fails to keep up. Kilorn darts into another room.

They collide outside the double doors to the kitchen. Kilorn huffs, swallowing back saliva and bending over as he gulps. His eyes water and his cheeks are red with exertion. He shakes his head, warding off desperation. Kilorn points at himself and then in one direction. He then points at Cal and then in another. They split up.

Cal has fresher legs and makes quick progress of the remainder of the first floor. But Kilorn had fewer doors on his half to check. Kilorn disappears above him. Cal launches himself two stairs at a time to the second floor. The shallow steps slow him down.

"No, no, no, no!" Kilorn devolves into wailing screams that muffle as he charges deeper.

People that had entered to find Cal and Mare rush up the stairs behind him. Kilorn sobs sound like an injured animal. Cal staggers forward. A healer and Farley push past him, following the echos.

He's not ready, not for this. Not for the source of Kilorn's shrieking sobs. Kilorn has no love for Maven, only for Mare.

"Fuck," Farley curses loud enough to re-start his feet.

She stops him at the door. Her shocked face is wet with tears and grime. She shakes her head and pushes him backwards. He lets her. He accepts the delay as quickly as he accepts why she wants to pause his approach.

"Let the healer…" she trails off and Cal feels the lie. It's punctuated by more guttural weeping.

Cal steps forward. She puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him for just a moment then lets him pass.

The apartment is as familiar to him as any of the homes they'd stayed at throughout the year. Though it's clearly marred by Maven's influence. The furniture, covered in white sheets, seems catawompus–out of place and tilted like a bad dream. The healer slumps in the doorway to the expansive closet. The man shrinks into himself as the crying quiets inside.

Cal knows he will never be able to un-see the scene in the room. His mind flashes through dozens of grotesque exaggerations with blood splattered and her eviscerated. He hopes Maven had been more kind to her body than his own brain seems to expect. His mind has a way that both prepared him and make him sick. Staying upright becomes a struggle as his body weakens.

The medic holds his eye and shakes his head, gripping his elbows and stepping out of the doorway. Clearly there's no healing that can be offered.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, hoarse, and losing composure.

Cal runs his hand through the tears on his cheek and then through his hair. The grime he pushes around makes his eyes burn and blink more wetness out. He shakes, steps forward, and searches the dark room for the horror of his loss.

Kilorn pushes her blood-filled hand up onto her stomach over and over. He takes measured breaths and then weaves her fingers together with her other hand. Her hands stay. He sits back and looks at Mare, then sets to separating the lock of hair dried to her forehead with blood. Her eyes are closed but her lids don't fully cover the white.

Kilorn's grief, and ritual movements hold Cal's eyes as his mind seeks not to look at Mare's body. He forces himself back to her face, the eyes he is certain Kilorn has carefully closed. His knees hurt when they strike the floor. His body aches under the pressure of the silent stone. Cal breathes but with a sense that his chest can never be full again. His fingers sweep an arch from where he held them out in front of him down to his side. His left collides with something smooth.

He looks down and follows the supple black leather to the white exposed skin of a lower leg and further up. No one has been there to close Maven's eyes or to position his arms. No one has posed him into a position of sleep, of peace. Maven's mouth hangs open, hands gripping at his throat in relaxed claws. Cal shifts up the legs, crawling on hands and knees to his brother's side.

The ice blue eyes carry none of the burdens bestowed by Elara and in their relaxed clarity look less like eyes than like washed out jewels. Cal hates to close them, to say goodbye to them, and at the same time, feels robbed of a last look at Mare's. He pulls the thin lids down, holds them like he has on other bodies, and then releases. Maven is cold. Cal tries to heat the room, to warm them back to life. The stone holds him back.

Sheets are stolen from the chairs outside. Farley has cleared more bodies than she has friends left in the world. Cal can see it's still not easy when they roll Mare and wrap the white cloth around her. They fold the sheet over her face, so that he can pull it back and examine her one last time.

Her pallor reminds him of the way they painted her. The way they made her into Mireena, fake, an imposter. She lacks everything that made her Mare. He stops short of touching her, short of assuring that the body is real. Cal cannot bring himself to touch her. He can't replace the warmth of her skin and the heat of her heart with the chill of death. The blood drying and seeping into the white is evidence enough.

Maven's body falls mostly to him, though Kilorn assists in getting the sheet positioned. He carries his brother to the table in the sitting room. Kilorn moves her to the desk, hand lingering on top of her arms.

Kilorn cries on the floor cross-legged and rocking. Farley combs his hair before she disappears. Cal stands and watches as an awkward sentry in the middle of the bodies. He dare not leave Maven to the hands of the victors, and he cannot step away from Mare. Leaving the side of one to join the other splits him until he slides down in the center and joins neither.

Time lapses. It stops moving in stillness and jumps forward to sobs that last twice as long as Cal knows. Someone cares for him. Someone brings water and food. He ignores both. He waits and cries until there are no more tears and he is the only one competing with silence in his ears.


	56. Prompt - Marecal Fluff Request

God, he is heavy. And when he's asleep, there's little I can do but measure my breath and wait. I suppose, I could wake him. I could curl his hair around his ear. The way his face lays on my stomach puts his ear at the most tempting of places.

Or, I could drag my fingernails down the stubble on his cheek. Felling the little prickly hairs bending and hearing the soft sound of friction. But then, he'd likely move his face and scrape those same prickly hairs into me. Then it would be a much ruder awakening when I squirmed.

If I could just slide my right leg a little out from under him, I could get blood back into my toes. The hurdle of his thigh seems too great to overcome without, again, those prickly face-hairs scratching me.

But my toes were swiftly becoming a problem. I had not felt them in an hour. The fuzzy idea of them had cooled and they began to ache. Action had to be taken.

Using just the fingertip of my right hand, I circled a soft ringlet of his dark hair away from his face and behind the cartilage of his right ear. I braced. He smushed his cheek into me and I did squirm under the uncomfortable tickle of sand-paper skin. Then he settled. I wiggled. He seemed to actually gain mass as the pressure only seemed to increase. My foot still could not breath.

Something more drastic.

As much as I dislike the coarse rub against my stomach, I do enjoy the feeling of stubble against my nails. I run my fingers down his cheek with the grain hearing the soft sound of bristles. And then run them back up catching each hair under my nail and letting the tinny sound of whiskers play.

Cal's body shifts as he turns his head to face to my right, his left cheek read with warmth. He murmurs something and his arms press in on my sides making me a pillow clutched into position.

It's enough to start the pins and needles. The electric spasms of awakening muscles and confused nerves forces involuntary twitches all the way up to my hip. Cal groans and pushes on me harder, sterner, holding me still as he struggled to stay asleep.

I try to bare it. I hold still as best I can, but the sensations drive me made, drive me wild with movement. And the tables are turning as I yank from under him and stretch. His concern dies after one assurance that I'm okay.

Cal's hands slide up over his head and then behind it, tucking down under the pillows and arching his back. His eyes flick open occasionally to track me hobbling around the room. And then he's rhythmically breathing, again, and I'm chilled to the bone on the ceramic tile.

Crawling along him, I lay my cheek to his chest and pull the sheet loosely over us. It's all I'll need with him burning hot beneath me. And in the morning, we won't need even that.


	57. Prompt  - Marecal Fluff Request #2

The little music box barely required her concentration to charge the batteries which in the pre-caffeine dawn was a blessing. Mare fixed her headphones to her head and tucked the box in her pocked before she stepped out onto the steps of her building and tripped. She almost fell into Cal's lap. His hands on her hips and her thighs kept her upright as he came to standing and hugged her loosely.

She snatched her headphones off. "Cal? What are you doing here?"

"I came for a run."

"It's Tuesday."

"You're dressed an aweful lot like you're going for a run," he held his grin and gathered her fingers between his. He started her down the stairs.

"Yeah, but you have work."

"I took the morning off." He stretched his legs slightly still holding her hand.

"You took the morning off?"

"Mmmhmm."

"To run?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"You ready, Barrow?" He dropped her fingers and started to run backwards.

"What's General McCanthos doing here?" Mare asked. Cal turned to follow her gaze. Mare accelerated past him. "Too slow, Calore!"

Delphie didn't have quite the same round-looping trail as the base in Piedmont. But they made use of the interconnected walking paths and the training trails on a routine basis. Mostly, they stuck to the residential area near the barracks and the family homes. A small shop capped each row of houses and one of those shops sold apple donuts Mare couldn't live without. So they started on one side and would end at the donuts shop.

Except, Cal swooped past her and prodded her on into the drill field and towards the hangars. She quirked her eyebrow and took his challenge, trading the lead back and forth until her side ached. The trees that edged the base provided the only shade in that part of the base. Under the rising sun, Mare needed that respite almost as much as she needed water–something they could also get easily at the drinking fountains between the buildings.

"You trying to kill me?" she heaved.

Cal at least had the sense to be legitimately winded.

"Come on, Barrow, don't quit now." He huffed, walking past her and into the trees. "At least don't stop in the sun."

"What do you care about the sun? You're living lava!" she shouted at his back. "Cal, come on. I need water, we have to head back."

Cal disappeared into the brush and swung from one arm around a tree trunk waiting for her to join him.

"So nice and cool in here, Mare," he taunted.

She stepped over the bushes and pushed a vine out of her way and did find the first shadow soothing while the way Cal stayed ten feet in front of her boiled her blood.

"I'm serious. I'm turning back. I'm gonna die of thirst," she said, but still she followed.

Then the light of the other side came into focus. Cal waited at the edge and held down a thick bush and a branch out of her way. The trees cast a shadow that headed westward, away from the ocean and towards the rolling hills that Mare now knew rose into small peaks just a day's journey away. In the shade, a blanket with water and a basket sat waiting, just for them.

"It's about to start, have a seat," Cal said.

Cal crouched to his knees and passed her the water she desperately wanted. She lowered herself beside him and looked at the empty space.

"What's starting?"

"A demonstration." He passed her a plate of soft, apple donuts.

"Of what?"

"Of my project… Just, wait."

From the hangars obscured by the grove of trees, Mare heard a small rustling. It was like leaves being burnt in a fire pit. Then the crackling sped up and deepened. And from over their heads, a rocked shot through the air, low to the ground, shaking the trees with wind and noise.

Mare covered her ears and Cal moved in closer, holding her. He adjusted so that she leaned against him. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

"That was a fast rocket." Mare stated. Rockets were fast, she wasn't extraordinarily impressed.

"That wasn't a rocket. Look." Cal pointed in the general direction the projectile had gone.

Mare watched the object bank a turn and come back towards them, arms extending. It hand arms. It also had legs. And it de-accelerated to a slower velocity and almost hovered. Then another joined it and another and another. A squad of six formed up into a V and began to drill awkward patterns.

"You made flying suits?"

"I did."

"You made flying suits and I'm not in one?" She shouted, almost smacking him, but that was a habit she'd been working on stopping.

"If I put you in a suit up there, who would spend our anniversary with me down here?"

"Anniversary? Cal, I think you need to check your calendar. It's not our anniversary it's Clara's birth… " She stopped, gaped, looked at the trees and then at the blanket. "This is the day you wanna pick out and celebrate?"

"It's hardly a bad day in my book."

"Are you serious right now? And do you think I'm gonna sleep with you while your rocket-pops up there are watching?"

Cal laughed, cinched her around the waist and forced her closer.

"I expect that after Clara's party." He paused and kissed her cheek. "When all the decorations are cleaned up." A kiss on her jaw. "And everyone has gone home." A nuzzle behind her ear. "Your dad's still gonna expect me to leave."

They both laughed.

"Just sit with me. Be close with me and that's more than enough." Cal assured.


End file.
